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The tea-leafing young git
Tried to half-inch our convent school’s kit
In The L.C.C dressing room prior to the game
Stood (like us) in absolute stiches of mirth
As a park keeper sniffed a well-seasoned shirt
and from the tag read a strong English name.
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I remember answering to W. Smith
Dinny, to R.G. Asquith
Little Francie being P.T. Fortescue
Declan still hears C.S Bates
From close knit family and mates
When we’ve indulged in a few at a do.
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If Nelsons are short
Mere slips a bhoys needing kit to do sport
Pray the nuns find a new set of shirts for the team?
Their prayers having miserably failed
The canny nuns still prevailed (and got us out gaol)
By storming a jumble sale, in search of our dream.
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In the full-on scrum for team shirts
Sister Louise tripping over her skirts
Entertained a church-hall of chain-smoking hags
Though I’m obviously forever indebted to The Sis
She didn’t have to suffer a joshing as W. Smith
Having refused to remove those English name-tags.
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Ah sure the poverty, the poverty
That sense of sheer abject why always me?
A burden through-out life I’ve strived to dismiss
Mind you, watching a recent game on T.V
At fella’s sporting; gloves, bra’s, hosiery?
I’ll settle for close mates joshing me as W. Smith.