by Leonard Pounds 'The girls are displacing the men sir!' Said a man to me once in the train 'Yes the cock's being bossed by the hen, sir Why they're even on football insane.' Then the following story he told me It may, or it may not, be true But just, in the words that he told me I'll give the narration to you. "The young curate came to decide, sir In answer to charity's call Fancy waist-coats and socks to provide, sir For the Zulus, who wear none at all. So some girls laid their fair heads together And a sweet little plot they did hatch They decided - no matter what weather To fix up a girls football match. Some hundreds of tickets they sold us Some green, some pink, and some buff 'Twas to be just a scratch match they told us And scratch match it was right enough. There were thousands of folk on the ground, sir When at last the great day did arrive And the curate the maidens hung round, sir For the young man was but twenty-five. 'Twas he was to be referee, sir A job I'd not have for a 'thou' At the time he was envied by me, sir But not after what I know now. The trouble came right at the start, sir When the Captain tried placing the field "You're forward," she said to Miss Dart, sir Who with angry amazement was filled. "Who's forward, you hussy?" she spluttered "I'll knock your false teeth down your throat!" "Hush ladies," the poor curate muttered As both of them pulled at his coat. "You occupy forward position Is what Miss mackay means to say So please take up that position And then I will whistle for play." Then the Captain turned round to another "You're right inside, please Mary Baynes." "Why of course she is" shouted her mother "Did you think the poor creature had pains." Then Miss Baynes, with her hair like a creeper Of sarcasm bitter used lots Saying - "Fancy you being goal-keeper Why you're more used to powder than shots." "When I looked at Miss Robinson's dress, sir My modesty murmured - Alack" For there wasn't much dress, I confess, sir And that's why they put her half-back. Miss Cuddles first got at the ball, sir And meant to propel it sky-high And I'm sure 'twasn't her fault, sir That she banged it in Nellie Smith's eye. Poor Nellie retired for repairs, sir After calling the curate a pig But in store were more worries and cares, sir For poor Mrs Jones lost her wig. Her hair we had always admired, sir And to think we'd been 'had' - oh 'twas gall But Miss Blobbs, with excitement quite fired, sir Scored a goal with that wig for the ball. "A corner," screamed long Sarah Flounder To plump little Molly Magee 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."
The end