A Poem for Old Rugby Players

When the battle scars have faded, and the truth becomes a lie

And the weekend smell of liniment could almost make you cry.

When the last ruck’s well behind you, and the man that ran now walks

It doesn’t matter who you are, the mirror sometimes talks.

Have a good hard look old son! The melons not that great

The snoz that takes a sharp turn sideways, used to be dead straight.

You’re an advert for arthritis, you’re a thoroughbred gone lame

Then you ask yourself the question, why the hell you played the game?

Was there logic in the head knocks? In the corks and in the cuts?

Did common sense get pushed aside? By manliness and guts?

Do you sometimes sit and wonder, why your time would often pass

In a tangled mess of bodies, with your head up someone’s arse?

With a thumb hooked up your nostril, scratching gently on your brain

And an overgrown Neanderthal, rejoicing in your pain!