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Lying face down in wet, soft forgiving mud,
After diving, desperately, and failing
To keep a long range shot out of the net.
You wonder to yourself, what am I doing here,
What a way to spend a Saturday morning?
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The fella, who’s foot driven exocet just beat you
Picks the ball out of the net.
‘Hard luck, keeper’ he says,
And runs back, amidst the congratulations of his team-mates,
En route to the half way line.
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It’s your fault, it always is.Team-mates stand dejected,
Hands on hips, some look to the sky for guidance,
Others glare at you, with red hot daggers.
Did they try to get in the way
Of that last rocket shot, that flew past you?