Bloke

When football’s done, he folds away

Until next season.

 Sometimes, you see him in the garden

Not doing much:

Scraping the rust off the barbecue

Or swapping round pots;

There’s the drill that starts up some nights,

As if he’s forgotten

That life is perfect.

Apart from that, it’s just

The odd word in the street

Or chin-wag at Sainsbury’s.

Let’s face it,

If it’s not about Rovers, it lacks an edge.

There’s not much else, is there, really?