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Some gigs ain’t worth the trouble
For the ta’s one gets from partisan crowds
When the passionate and somewhat befuddled
Are swearing blind: “That throw you gave ’em was ours”
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Stood amidst two adversaries, barking out orders,
Whilst cussing all and sundry at will
Ain’t exactly what you’d call a stroll of a morning
Blue clouds serenely shadowing hills?
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Is something missing from a citizens psyche
Are they avid fans of verbal abuse?
What perversely makes a human being like it?
Having thousands diss the things, that they do?
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Imagine being at Anfield last Sunday afternoon
Two bawling Glaswegians, with you stuck in the middle
You’d be ordering two new ear-drums any time soon
Post being struck down deaf,
So I ask you, who’d wanna be the fourth match official?