The Violence Gangs of West Sussex
Bronze of skin and tawny limbed,
The British beef in sunlight limned,
With mighty hocks and heads like blocks,
They charge together with brains of rocks.
‘Quick lads, quick its time to scrum,
So gird your loins and lick your thumb,
And lay your hand ‘pon that fellows bum.’
A grand and ’stonishing sight to see,
these men of England on bended knee.
Each one a vast pot roast of chap,
who would eschew all girly crap.
But place him here on sacred ground,
With all his fellows ranged around.
Filled with pride and thoughts of beer
the end of battle drawing near.
These men of iron, men of steel,
Thoughts turn sudden now to feel,
A pang of fear that in the grip,
Of passions play their motions tripped.
And on the turf they did spill,
Much more than blood upon the hill.
‘But no you jest’ I hear them rumble,
‘Its just a game of rough and tumble.’
So off they go at end of play,
To baths and showers that are not gay.
No you lads have nought to fear,
Just don’t ever call them…queer.