Many thanks to Lawrence and Rosemary Threadgold for sending these, there are more but I am sure some of you can come up with a few of your own!!
A faithful scrum-half name of Powell,
Decided to throw in the towel.
Now he’s hung up his hat,
We’ll all miss our Matt,
But we’ll still cheer a nine, name of Powell.
We all know a hooker named Chris,
Whose throws to the line rarely miss;
But don’t call him Lee,
That’s his brother, you see,
Though they’re both known for taking the…….mickey!
There once was a tighthead called Horse,
Who hit the front row with great force.
When he opted to sin,
He’d end up in the bin,
But we still love that Warrior, of course.
We’ve a wonderful hooker, Aleki,
A Tongan like long-lost Sateki.
When he carries the ball,
He could break a brick wall,
After three Shredded Wheats for his “breki”.
Opposing front rows are at sea,
When they come up against our TT.
A Tongan by birth,
(You can tell by his girth),
Now a Warrior who wears number three.
Alex Grove through the centre field flits
To put in some very big hits.
His tackle on Lewsey
Was splendidly juicy
And left the blond bombshell in bits.
Our top number eight is called Kai.
His work-rate’s incredibly high.
At the base of the scrum,
His job’s never done,
And he never lets tackles go by.
There was a young prop name of Matt,
Who thought he was really a back,
For he soon overtook
The flying James Hook
And gave him a helluva smack.
In the South is a stand that is tall,
So supporters should try not to fall.
If you’ve been to the bar
And lean out too far,
You’ll be caught in the net like the ball.
In Gloucester they’re proud of their shed
And boast of the passion it’s bred,
But their pride took a dent
When our cheering North “tent”,
Yelled that Wusster had finished ahead.
The supporters who stand near the bar,
Have gathered from near and from far.
That the pitch is close by
Means they feature on Sky,
Then they nip to the club for a jar!
The supporters who sit in the West,
Think their knowledge is always the best.
Their numbers are small
And they don’t shout at all,
But a Warrior heart beats in their breast.
The East is the home of the boys,
With their horns and their various toys.
They deafen the ears
With their chanting and cheers
And gladden the heart with their noise.
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