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