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YOU can keep your antique silver and your statuettes of bronze, Your curios and tapestries so fine, But of all your treasures rare there is nothing to compare With this patched up, wornout football pal o’ mine. Just a patchedup wornout football, yet how it clings! I live again my happier days in thoughts that football brings. It’s got a mouth, it’s got a tongue, And oft when we’re alone I fancy that it speaks To me of golden youth that’s flown. It calls to mind our meeting, ’Twas a present from the Dad. I kicked it yet I worshipped it, How strange a priest it had! And yet it jumped with pleasure When I punched it might and main: And when it had the dumps It got blown up and punched again. It’s lived its life; It’s played the game; Its had its rise and fall, There’s history in the wrinkles of that wornout football. Caresses rarely came its way in babyhood ’twas tanned. It’s been well oiled, and yet it’s quite teetotal, understand. It’s gone the pace, and sometimes it’s been absolutely bust, And yet ’twas always full of bounce, No matter how ’twas cussed. He’s broken many rules and oft has wandered out of bounds, He’s joined in shooting parties Over other people’s grounds. Misunderstood by women, He was never thought a catch, Yet he was never happier Than when bringing off a match. He’s often been in danger Caught in nets that foes have spread, He’s even come to life again When all have called him dead. Started on the centre, And he’s acted on the square, To all parts of the compass He’s been bullied everywhere. His aims and his ambitious Were opposed by one and all, And yet he somehow reached his goal That plucky old football. When schooling days were ended I forgot him altogether, And ’midst the dusty years He lay a crumpled lump of leather. Then came the threat’ning voice of War, And games had little chance, My brother went to do his bit Out there somewhere in France. And when my brother wrote he said, ‘Of all a Tommy’s joys, There’s none compares with football. Will you send one for the boys?’ I sent not one but many, And my old one with the rest, I thought that football’s finished now, But no he stood the test. Behind the lines they kicked him As he’d never been kicked before. Till they busted him and sent him back A keepsake of the war. My brother lies out there in France, Beneath a simple cross, And I seem to feel my football knows my grief, And shares my loss. He tells me of that splendid charge, And then my brother’s fall. In life he loved our mutual chum That worn-out football. Oh you can keep your antique silver And your statuettes of bronze Your curios and tapestries so fine But of all your treasures rare There is nothing to compare With that patched-up worn-out football— Pal o’ mine. |