To The "Muddied Oaf"

My dear Muddied Oaf, -         While still a youth and all unknown to fame,         I went to school.         And on a certain Saturday         I put on a beautiful blue jersey, and some striped knickers,         And betook myself into a damp field         With my hands nice and clean,         And my hair parted.         Within an hour's time         My shins had the appearance of a broken paint can,         My garments were covered with mud,         One of my teeth had somehow got swallowed,         And my hair was out of joint.         When I come to think of it,         In that hour I must have been a Muddied Oaf,         Though I did not know what to call myself.         And no doubt on that and successive Saturday afternoons         I won my various journalistic Waterloos,         And contracted a stubborn cardiac hypertrophy         Which is even yet with me.         For nigh twenty years, however,         I have never, to my knowledge,         Taken part in a football match;         And, in spite of Mr. Kipling,         I do not propose to indulge again         In either Rugby or the other thing.         Youth loves to be muddied;         In old age one flings one's mud at other people.         I don't know, my dear Muddied Oaf,         How you like being called a Muddied Oaf.         The average Muddied Oaf of my acquaintance         Will not in the least understand         What Muddied Oaf means,         And even when a dozen reporters         Have explained it to him, dictionary in hand,         He will not care.         You cannot take the glory of having crumpled up the Footleum Otspurs out of a man         By calling him Muddy;         And as for Oaf,         When all is said         It is a poor synonym for "dashing forward."         No, my dear boy,         Phrases out of poems cannot damp your ardours.         And, so far as you are concerned,         Mr.         Rudyard         Kipling         May         Be         Blowed!         All the same, I assure you         As an old muddifier         That there is a great deal in what the gentleman says.         To a delicate age,         Rifle practice presents many attractions:         To shoot out of a No. 1 rifle         At a choice array of clay pipes, dancing globules, and cardboard rabbits         Is on the face of it         A gentleman's job:         You can do it with your hair parted:         And providing you don't get betting drinks         That you will ring the bell every time,         It doesn't cost much.         Regular practice         At the ordinary shooting booths         Will no doubt make a soldier and a gentleman of you,         And teach you to fear no Boer in shining armour.         These are points worth considering.         Also, the game does not hurt.         You need no lemon to help you through with it,         You run no risk of dislocation, fracture, hypertrophy, gouged eye, or broken neck,         You are on velvet all the time.         And when it comes to calling names,         You will have the honour and glory         Of being set down for a gallant and gilt-edged         Defender of your country,         Ponder it, O Muddied One,         And be wise.