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On August 3rd 2006,
Mike needed some poetic kicks.
And those of us who really know ‘im,
Hoped he’d try to write a poem.
But what would get him most excited?
Rovers? City? Or United?
What aspect of the national game
Was he about to name and shame?
Was it a rant at poor decisions?
An ode to widescreen televisions?
World Cup Willie? Sunday League?
Pre-season thigh and calf fatigue?
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But sadly Mike, though keen to write,
Stared at the paper glossy white
And, though the date was underlined,
Not one thought came to his mind.
For him, the Muse had upped and gone
And left him naught to write upon.
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He sits there still by day and night,
The ballpoint pen still poised to write,
Searching his imagination
For poetic inspiration.
He chews his nib around the clock
Still trying to shake his writer’s block.