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I love to read my husband’s football poetry,
it has a lilting rhythm to its rhyme,
he writes it in the evening after having tea,
seated at the table with a bottle of red wine..
You’d never guess that Arthur is a Vicar,
because he’s partial to a drink or two,
but he hums a hymn or whistles ‘Rule Britannia’,
while composing verse about a team in chocolate, pink and blue..
Although I sometimes wonder, while other times I think
is it chocolate, pink and blue, or chocolate, blue and pink?
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They are called Corinthian-somethingamajig or other,
I’ll ask his brother, or his mother, or his other brother..
Arthur keeps a photograph of this favourite team
alongside the faded picture of Victoria our Queen,
which stands opposite the table, high upon a shelf
and every night, more than once, he will toast her health..
(‘shelf’ and ‘health’ don’t really rhyme
except after a few glasses of wine)..
(‘rhyme’ and ‘wine’ don’t really rhyme
except after another glass of wine)…