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D’you remember ‘eads an’ V’s an’ footy on the Puddy?
Sunny, hazy strawberry-pop fuelled frolics,
Or cloggin up soggy bog, waterlogged an’ muddy
An’ foggy Tuesday evenings, stone cold with frozzen bollix.
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Flickin’ up a flyaway, whackin’ it a wally,
Tryin’ a score a b*****d of a Van Basten-esque volley.
Teein’ up a thunderbolt, skyin’ it a mile off,
Toward the iron roundabout what nearly ripped me thigh off.
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Three an’ in, sixaside, get an ‘eader on it!
Flung a boot out in the shoot out, ‘it a Peugeot bonnet.
Each car, the underside of bar, nothin’ quite went unblemished,
Surroundings pounded by the ball with every mishit finish.
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But nights draw in, ball’s get burst, games get late.
Our carefree kickabouts converted to stalemates.
We grind out goallessness, employ ultradefense, tense, nervy
As our swervy wayward punts drift wastefully away
Over the sideline.
Our game of childhood, deep into stoppage time.