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They had the reputation and they were the best around,
And then we drew them in the Cup to play them at our ground.
In school we suffered all the taunts, the little digs and sniggers,
And were told that we’d do well to keep them down to double figures.
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They had a centre forward who was burly and athletic.
Compared to him, my football skills and talents were pathetic.
And some kid who played on our team, avowed he’d heard him boasting
He’d score a double hat-trick and he’d give me a right roasting.
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Now when I heard these comments, I was just a tad perturbed,
And confided in my oul’ lad, I was mightily disturbed.
He listened to my problem and he came up with a plan,
[My dad had always been a most resourceful kind of man.]
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And when the kick-off came, I made a bee-line for my foe,
And everywhere the bugger went, this lamb was sure to go.
I stuck tighter than a fish’s arse, as he got more frustrated,
But I just smiled benignly as the sod got irritated.
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I took no part in our attacks, I never got a pass,
Just concentrated staying on the centre-forward’s ass,
And every time his team-mates tried to bring him into play,
I’d stick a large, ungainly leg and boot the ball away.
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Alas, alack! Sweet triumph’s not the way this story goes,
Unseen by all, he elbowed me with fury in the nose,
And as they told me to go off, blood streaming down my face,
The manager quite rashly sent a sub on in my place.
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Through tears of rage, I watched our team play out the final minute,
My heart was in my stomach, for there was just one team in it,
And as the ball was swept across, my nemesis jumped up
And smacked it past our keeper and we went out of the Cup.
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He came over to me after, when the celebrations died.
He stuck his hand out graciously, without a hint of pride.
“Sorry, Pete,” he mumbled, as he eyed the nose he’d battered,
“You know I wouldn’t have done it, if it hadn’t really mattered.”