They dunno how it is. I smack a ball
right through the goals. But they dunno how the words
get muddled in my head, get tired somehow.
I look through the window, see. And there’s a wall
I’d kick the ball against, just smack and smack.
Old Jerry he can’t play, he don’t know how,
not now at any rate. He’s too flicking small.
See him in shorts, out in the crazy black.
Rythm, he says, and ryme. See him at back.
He don’t know nuthing about Law. He’d fall
flat on his face, just like a big sack,
when you’re going down the wing, the wind behind you
and crossing into the goalmouth, and they’re roaring
the whole great crowd. They’re up on their feet cheering.
The ball’s at your feet and there it goes, just crack.
Old Jerry dives – the wrong way. And they’re jearing
and I run to the centre and old Bash
jumps up and down, and I feel great, and wearing
my gold and purpel strip, fresh from the wash.