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Sunday morning’s Ralgex glow,
With every touch I puff and blow.
I must play at the back as I am old,
and the cartilage crunch in the New Year cold.
And so I must block and head and sweep,
get repeatedly told I’m playing too deep.
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While the strikers turn out late from bed,
With tick-marked boots of lime and red,
The pace of their game causes no duress,
but I have an extra shorts-worth of flesh.
So I play at the back ‘cos I am old,
and the cartilages chew in the New Year cold.