My Old Football

& Cuthbert Clarke     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.     Its got a mouth, its got a tongue,     And oft when were alone I fancy that it speaks     To me of golden youth thats 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.     Its lived its life;     Its played the game;     Its had its rise and fall,     Theres history in the wrinkles of that wornout football.     Caresses rarely came its way in babyhood twas tanned.     Its been well oiled, and yet its quite teetotal, understand.     Its gone the pace, and sometimes its been absolutely bust,     And yet twas always full of bounce,     No matter how twas cussed.     Hes broken many rules and oft has wandered out of bounds,     Hes joined in shooting parties     Over other peoples grounds.     Misunderstood by women,     He was never thought a catch,     Yet he was never happier     Than when bringing off a match.     Hes often been in danger     Caught in nets that foes have spread,     Hes even come to life again     When all have called him dead.     Started on the centre,     And hes acted on the square,     To all parts of the compass     Hes 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 threatning 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 Tommys joys,     Theres 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 footballs finished now,     But no he stood the test.     Behind the lines they kicked him     As hed 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 brothers 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