I’ve played in most positions so that being quick and lean

I started off at fullback where I wore the shirt “15”.

I joined the line in their attacks, my kick was like a mule’s,

I tackled like a rhino (sometimes within the rules!)

 

A surfeit of jam puddings, though, at dinner time would mean

The coaches said that I’d become the fattest back they’d seen;

And fellow team mates oftentimes would call me, ”Useless Wanker!”

I joined the fatboys in the scrum at No. 8 or flanker.

 

I played in those positions for 6 or 7 years

But courtesy of Ginster’s pies and chips and Shipstone’s beers

I lost manoeuvrability but rather than be dropped

I joined “The Missing Link” front row as tight or loose head prop.

 

I trundled round those playing fields to scrum or ruck or maul

I left the running to the backs – I never touched the ball.

But after twenty minutes I'd be out of puff and so

To get my breath back picked a fight with one of their front row.

 

The ending was inexorable; the portent of my plight?

A changing room debacle when my jersey got too tight;

My team mates tried to pull it on – they huffed and puffed and coughed

The coach had much less sympathy and said “Just bugger off!”

 

But cruelly he made me play that last game; said the Boss

Just paint him in club colours with a coat of Dulux gloss.

And thus my playing days came to an ignominious stop

You know your days are numbered when you end up as a prop.