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Saturday Afternoon

1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 “He’s a right old bugger” grumbled Harry to Dick,
as the wing passed them by with a shuffle and a flick.
Haring down the touchline with a fullback by his side,
this wonderous magician was felled with a slide.
As he fell the winger clutched himself as if he had been shot
While the assailant held his hands up high, praying he wouldn’t be caught.
For you see that yon poor lad had already merited a yellow
And another flash of card woud have been the end of this poor fellow
So while the stands call for murder, the coach for a spot-kick,
the referee waves play on.
God football makes me sick

6

Source: http://footballpoets.org/poems/saturday-afternoon/