Smithy is the manager
Of the local football team,
A nice bloke on the face of it,
But all’s not as it seems.
Once he dons his tracksuit,
And gets down on pitchside,
It’s goodbye Smithy Jekyll,
Hello Smithy Mister Hyde.
He’s fully animated,
As he paces to and ‘fro,
He throws himself into the game,
And logic out the window.
The referee’s against us,
The opposing players cheat,
And Smithy quickly lets them know,
With words I can’t repeat.
If a team should score against us,
It’s a deadly mortal sin,
His sense of fair play centres on,
The rule that we must win.
Yet if you come across him,
On any other day,
He’s polite and kind and gentle,
Not mad in any way.
I don’t know what possesses him,
What demons burn inside,
To turn mild Smithy Jekyll,
Into raving Smithy Hyde.
But now I come to think of it,
He’s not out there on his own,,
He’s like every football manager,
That I have ever known.
He’s partisan, demented,
A Jekyll and a Hyde,
But when it all comes down to it,
I’m glad he’s on our side.
(copyright timbush 2014)