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From the first whistle, his neck-hairs would bristle,
And into the fray he would leap.
He’d join each attack, yet he’d always track back,
For he wasn’t afraid to come deep.
He covered each blade of the pitch when he played,
And pushed himself to the extreme.
But alas! near the end of each game, he would tend
To slow down and to run out of steam.
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For over an hour, he’d combine skill with power,
And scamper around like a ferret.
He’d chase each lost cause to tremendous applause,
Whatever the worth or the merit.
But then the switched flicked, and paralysis clicked,
And he couldn’t run back to defend.
Oh, he wasn’t to blame, but in every game,
He’d never quite