Leave a comment on verse 1 0
The referee’s son was a bonny wee lad,
He’d none of the miserable traits of his dad.
His eyesight was perfect, his judgement was fair,
And his birthday was coming up quickly.
For the party, his dad had splashed out pretty dear,
And hired for a treat an adroit puppeteer,
But the ref was left cursing and tearing his hair,
When the star turn cried off feeling sickly.
Leave a comment on verse 2 0
He’d phoned loads of people, but none could be found
Who’d entertain children for less than ten pound,
And the party was forty eight hours away,
And the ref was downcast and depressed.
He went off to a match in a humour so foul,
And he reffed the whole game with a terrible scowl.
It was a bad-tempered and niggly affray,
And the ref wasn’t feeling the best.
Leave a comment on verse 3 0
Then the full back put the winger right out of the game,
And the ref got his book out, and asked him his name,
And the full back said, “Surely my face is unique?
I am Lord Henry Villeneuve de Ponce.
A magician by trade, doing mostly kids’ parties,
I delve in my top hat and find loads of Smarties,
And I’m available every day of the week.”
So the referee booked him at once.