The Broad Street Final
¶ 1
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Sweat drips into my eyes,
my hands protecting the prize.
¶ 2
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The sun’s heat is beating,
and the left-back is a clown.
¶ 3
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This might just go on all night,
my car would make a good flood light.
¶ 4
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My hands are “Black and blemished with the hill’s sickness”
and the forwards don’t like my quickness.
¶ 5
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And as I fly between each post,
their chance to equalize is but a ghost.
¶ 6
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Then Mam rings me so time is up,
so we lift the FA cup.
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