The Scapegoat
¶ 1
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Once he was a subtle fist, extremely well disguised,
Belonging to a genius who once was eulogised.
¶ 2
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And once he was an honest man, complete with turnip’s head,
Ridiculed around the land for everything he said.
¶ 3
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He’s often been the lottery of penalty despair,
Bottled shots that dash all hopes, whilst flying through the air.
¶ 4
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Once he was a mild young man, spread-eagled on the ground,
Who swung a weak and lazy leg, and fury did abound.
¶ 5
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Once he was a flukey lob that soared o’er Seaman’s head,
Completely unintentional, or so the papers said.
¶ 6
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And now he is a referee who spotted Terry’s block,
Angering a nation with a minute on the clock.
¶ 7
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Scapegoats help to form a wall, deflecting fierce shots wide,
For England never can be beaten by a better side.
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