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He sits down in the corner and stares up at the ceiling,
The smell of sweat and liniment permeate his senses,
The game re-runs within his mind, how ever could it differ,
What would he change if time reverted, what could he foresee.
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He bends down and unties his boots and thinks about the spot kick,
He thinks about the sending off, the booing of the crowd,
It’s no use crying, the milk is spilt, he tells himself assuredly,
He had no choice, or so he thought, as far as he could see.
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His mistakes have changed the game,… he knows,… he feels the pain,
If only he had taken time and thought about his game,
It’s too late now, he’ll take the flak, he has to, it’s his job,
But all the while regrets the day he became a referee.
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