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Martin Rustle

1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 The paperman stands there with nothing to say.
The gusts of cruel fate simply blew him away.
His team had no time to be nurtured and moulded,
Small wonder he stands there with arms tightly folded.
The paperman suffered successive defeats.
His team was well creased and they kept no clean sheets.
Like a ream of A3, he was left on the shelf,
And told by his chairman to go fax himself.

11

Source: https://footballpoets.org/poems/martin-rustle/