Spare a thought for the old Referee,

One contemplates, ‘Why does he bother?’

Twenty-two men all running free,

Abused by one side or the other.


The dancing mob yell insults at him,

To place his parentage somewhat in doubt;

Ignoring them all with face looking grim,

He gives not a damn what they shout.


With clinical eye like a surgeon’s knife,

He presides from here to there;

Forever prepared for player strife,

He prances with poise and flair.


Woe-be-tide the one who goes nose to nose,

Yellow or red card, off the field sent;

The vernacular around him ebbs and flows;

The offender given time to lament.


A policeman warns a young boy to pipe down;

To think of his Mother; his language to watch;

He looks up at the officer, face in a frown;

“But Mister”, says he; “This is a football match”.


Monty Alexander 28.9.12



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