They run, run, run, run around.
Sometimes the ball spins along or over their heads
But they don’t even notice it
Because they’re too busy running.
It’s one of those games
Where I have to count the number of shirts on the pitch
Because I’m sure the other team
Has got an extra player.
Our striker doesn’t give up
But he never touches the ball.
He’s too busy running after the defender
Who hasn’t even noticed him.
They are dogs being teased
They follow the ball, not the players
And as it gets stroked around the pitch
They can only run until they’re tired.
And now they’re tired.
They’re bored of the effort and frustrated with the game
And now it’s getting dark and cold
With the wind chilling their ageing kneecaps.
Formation evaporated, tactics dissipated
The whistle ends this sorry scene.
They can walk now, like the fans now leaving and muttering
“At least they tried”.