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All the pubs and trains and grounds I’ve sat in
Just to see him run like a demented chicken
The man can’t jump and he has no tricks
Just stumbles and stoops to obtain free-kicks.
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You’d think with his size he’d be categorised
As an old fashioned barnstorming centre-forward
But with hands on hips and those puppy dog eyes
He is better described as a quietly awkward.
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But just when you feel an inner swell of derision
As you wonder how he made it to the first division
The ball’s in the net – and it’s down to big Brett
And he does it all the time, he’s as good as they get.
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Whether shin-bone or knee-cap, or his fat back-side
a back-header or toe-poke – the goals are contrived
By a player with great spirit and a smile so wide
He’s a gentleman with attitude, humility and pride.
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So sophisticates can stick with their Hasselbainks and Yorkes
Their opta-stats and light-pens and all their fancy talk
And I’ll stick to travelling my myriad beer-fueled miles
For the the Saddlers and the chance to glimpse
Brett Angell’s winning smile.