And so the rugby season ends like good old father time,
He shuffles off this weary man a' hunting beer and wine.
His back is hunched from too much scrums and rucking like a beast,
A dislocated testicle infected with the yeast.
His broken nose and nobbled toes are aching like a bitch,
And weary brow with scars upon from odd and random stitch.
His strapped up joints and lumps 'n bumps he wears with honoured pride,
Will numb with alcohol and joy from songs about his bride.
And though the battles over with this valedict'ry song,
The advent of the summer death in John Lewis is long.
For shopping she has planned for him with DIY for shame,
Septembers whispered song a distant siren in the rain.
So too the God Ikea calls like Morlocks to the cave,
Where wander in a trance like state the nervous and the brave.
And if survived the school breaks up to drive us all insane,
With summer holiday-ing kids in supermarket pain.
Away he goes with factor 10 to Butlins in the sun,
For 'rangoon' ring and heatstroke too and spots upon his bum.
He shouts about the price of beer and snarls at WAGs and kids.
The pent up anger taken out on stubborn jam jar lids.
"My god" she says, "What's wrong with you - you're crazy like a fox?"
Deep thoughts of under patio and whispers "What size box?"
But then the end of summer dawns with children looking glum,
So many barbecues of vodka Pimms peach-schnapps and rum.
A little fatter than before when training starts again,
Though when October turns the leaves his porky-ness will thin.
And though you're getting older
And most folks think you're a good 'un,
You'll never be as popular as that man Mr Duggan!