He’s paid his money, he’s made the trip
The opponent’s colours make him sick
He points, he screams, he waves, he moans
Those around him start to groan.
This is not passion, just anger raw
But his expletives oft do bore
Does he know how to relax
And get off their toiling backs?
He knows the tactics are all wrong
He knows the players that don’t belong
He sees the balls that should be played
He covers every single blade.
Desperate to get his voice heard
But all the games that had occurred
As he watched he was distraught,
Not as perfect as his thoughts.