My father’s what’s known as a Gaffer.
He sits through the game on the bench.
And when he comes home in the evening,
He’s covered all over in sweat.
His team wins? He takes all the credit.
They get beat? It’s down to the Ref,
Or Chairman, who won’t sign new talent,
‘Cos he’s already ear-deep in debt.
He chews gum like mad through the First Half.
Continues when play has resumed.
Five packets of Wrigley’s on Match Days –
The least that my Old Man consumes.
Last year he was driving a Limo.
He traded it in for a Jag.
But he never sleeps sound on his pillow,
‘Cos he’s scared stiff of getting the sack!
Now, doctors and nurses and teachers,
They sure get their fair share of stress.
But they should try being a Gaffer –
They’d soon jack the job in, I guess.
My father, he’s quite a style-icon,
In Ray-Bans and trademark white Mac.
With his Squad he’s a fierce as a python,
But with me he’s a meek as a lamb.
So next time your Team’s doing badly,
Please don’t call the Gaffer a ****
That Gaffer could be someone’s Daddy,
Who like mine’s not such a bad chap…
Denys E. W. Jones