Cried Molly, 'You bony old bounder
There aren't any corners on me.'

'What a Foul,' shouted out 'Tilda Coaltree
'Who's a fowl? exclaimed charming Miss Buck
'I will not be classed with the poultry
Your husband once called me a Duck.'

Because she was asked not to 'dribble'
Flo Johnson replied in a heat
'How dare you assert that I dribble
I use serviettes when I eat.'

Along the wing came Cissy Caskett
She cleverly dodged Mrs Pitch
But she dodged not that boy with the basket
And she quite failed in dodging the ditch.

A huge rush knocked the referee over
With heavy Miss Green on his head
'Will this be reported by 'Rover'?'
The curate pathetically said.

'It's half-time, please change,' said the curate
Quite glad of a respite no doubt
Said a Girl, 'I refuse to endure it
What change? - with these people about.'
  Exactly one hour since they started
But two players stuck to the fray
Between them the poor curate darted
In trying to get out of their way.
Oh, what a collision was there, sir
They went down in a struggling lump
The curate lay gasping for air, sir
O'er his eye was a terrible bump.

When the ambulancemen had departed
And at last peace and quietude reigned
On a search expedition we started
To gather up all that remained.
Nine hairpins, three belts and that wig, sir
Four fringe-nets and parts of an ear
Three quarters of Gertie Smith's rig, sir
Who went home quite chilly I fear.

There were other things lying about, sir
Too crumpled to be of much use
They are lying there still without doubt, sir
Just where Mary Tomkins came loose.
That game's now an oldish tradition
But still it's related at times
But that curate has since said, 'Perdition
To poor folk in far foreign climes.'
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