There he goes almost running the channels,
Always one in every team -
All the players try and ignore,
He's a five-a-side shouter.
Plays himself up front
And tells you how to defend
You want to tell him to fuck off
But then he goes and scores again.
A simple tap in
He's missed about twenty three!
But he's still scored more than you or me.
Patronising, post-match
Well done to you and you and you
Their keeper was great, we were lucky to scrape through!
Half blind, their keeper. A midfield combined age of eighty three!
Nevertheless your seething resentment subsides
Slips off, diminished
And you pray next week
To be playing that team with Richard Shaw.
