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I warmed up on the touchline,
And heard the Gaffer say:
“Give pounds, give pence, give dollars, cents,
But not the ball away.
That plastic-coated leathern sphere,
Pray, keep it at your feet.
Or pass it straight to some team-mate,
With luck we’ll not get beat.”
Leave a comment on verse 2 0
Full nine and eighty minutes gone,
I pulled my tracksuit off.
At lightning speed raced on the pitch,
Yet those wise words forgot.
Though pounds and pence my pockets fill,
Alas, that ball I lost.
And Gaffer, me and ten team-mates
Are left to count the cost…