An eager fly half went to Bream

To play for the Bream rugby team

But the after match revels

Made his trip home to St Briavels

Much longer that you may think that it seems.

That outside half, it was me

I was playing as hard as can be

But I missed a conversion, my credibility worsened

And the place kicks were taken from me.

My team mates all had a unique forest name

There were Pudding and Dobber and Biter

But there was no apposite name for this new rugby writer

Who was new to this foresters’ game

He needed a unique forest title

So the team called him Kenter, and they moved him to centre

Where scoring some tries was most vital

But those tries seldom came in the Bream rugby game

A future in lower rugby grade beckons

They dropped him to the rugby club seconds

A place for rejects from the firsts

And then sadly to have to describe in these words

The sad and inevitable drop to the thirds

And a move to the wing at the end of the line

Where the frustrated old winger had no room to shine

What a waste of the Forest View rugby flair

The ball never came to me there

Hidden out on the fringe as I often would winge

Standing in the long grass, never getting a pass

So I took up the whistle, with reffing skills superficial

I tried to adjudicate as ‘honestly’ as can be

But accused of an optical illusion

I came to the conclusion

It cannot be them, it’s bound to be me.

It’s ‘He’s been doing it all afternoon ref’

Or ‘Don’t whistle so hard I’m not deaf ref’

Or other observations intended to rile

‘Where’s your white stick, he’s offside by a mile,‘

‘It’s not a knock on, just a slight re-adjust-ment’

Observations to criticise referee Kent

So I gave up the game and become an ex-referee.

It’s all a long time in the past

But my deep rugby memories still last

And I dream in my brain I could do it again

With my old whistle but immaculate vision

When I see a match live or on television.