ROPED INTO SOCCER

Roped into soccer on Thursdays.

Pair of old boots on my shoulder.

Pads made of bone

To protect precious shin,

Big brother’s shorts

Secured by a pin.

I shan’t do this stuff when I’m older.

Roped into soccer? Not me, sir!

Roped into games, Friday morning.

Plimsolls that smell in the summer.

Horses to vault

When you haven’t a note.

Mats made of rush

And you can’t wear your coat.

Burns upon hands that might play the piano.

Roped into games? No, not me, sir!

Roped into dull social studies

By teachers with beards and bad jackets.

Learning of Lenin

And Stalin and Marx,

Tolpuddle Martyrs,

Sedition and sparks,

Crass revolutions in God-awful places.

Roped into that lot? Not me, sir!

Roped into prizes on Prize Day.

Projects that no-one approved of.

Always some boff

From the fourth form or third

Who writes some great thesis

On ‘Flight of the bird’

And wins every prize and becomes the school captain.

Roped into prizes. NO THANK YOU!

I was always a loner really.