Pot kettle black
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Oh the old Pathé news showing snatches of matches,
Grainy and grimy and jumpy in patches.
In the old penny seats, we would sit there so snugly,
Remarking how all of the fans were so ugly.
With their National Health glasses and old, wizened faces,
And sticky-out ears and their shirt-sleeves and braces.
Gappy-toothed goblins all squashed in together,
Craning to see a small piece of the leather.
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Yet we, giggling madly, like overgrown elves,
Were hardly a bunch of oil-paintings ourselves.
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