Stumbling from the bogs, un-tucked shirts, open flies.
Match every Saturday, always played to win, then an hour on the bus,
Primed for lager and for sin.
Club badge of honour, worn with drunken pride, displayed on breast pocket,
Impress the ladies, chance a ride.
Who will be the lucky lady on the town tonight?
Two sambuccas later – squint, yeah he’s Mr Right.
It’s a game of two halves and both always know the score.
By half twelve there’ll be snogging upon the dance floor.