Sweat drips into my eyes,
my hands protecting the prize.
The sun’s heat is beating,
and the left-back is a clown.
This might just go on all night,
my car would make a good flood light.
My hands are “Black and blemished with the hill’s sickness”
and the forwards don’t like my quickness.
And as I fly between each post,
their chance to equalize is but a ghost.
Then Mam rings me so time is up,
so we lift the FA cup.