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With a swagger, he strode through the dressing room door,
His hat tilted over one eye.
His trenchcoat dripped puddles upon the tiled floor,
And the sheen glinted off his fat tie.
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“Where’s the stiff?” he demanded, as the players shrank back
And pointed beneath the far bench.
The dude moved some socks that were putrid and black,
Ignoring the terrible stench.
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“This ball has been murdered,” he uttered at last.
“Stabbed in a crime of some passion.
Has somebody here got a violent past?
Speak now, and I’ll show some compassion.”
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With a flash, he was gone, the cigar smoke still trailing,
And everyone turned round in fright.
Some of them slumped, for their knees had been failing,
While others just stood, chalky white.
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“Who was that?” asked a young lad, and somebody sniggered,
Though nobody found it too funny.
“All right,” said the captain, “in case you’ve not figured,
That’s our new dead-ball specialist, sonny.”