By West Mids Saint
May 6 2003

As the season comes to a dramitic conclusion on Saturday our very own wordsmith West Mids Saints (or Mark to his mum) puts his own twist on things in another epic ode. Take it away WMS...... AND NOW THE END IS NEAR..........

So we've come to the end of the season
With issues, as yet, unresolved
We've all still got something to play for
And each Zippee team's still involved.

There's Gloucester v Tiggers for starters
It depends which team Glaws choose to field
Let's hope it's a really good strong 'un
To put Tigs in the Bic Biro Shield.

It's sad how the mighty have fallen
An' I'll tell you - I really do miss
The 'superior' chat on their website
So take pity and don't take the p...

Now Glaws think it's time to take over
The mantle of ruling the roost
To this quaint, picturesque part of England
They have certainly given a boost.

But Uncle Tom's pockets are empty,
Their star men returning to France:
Though deserving of this season's triumph
A 'one season wonder' perchance?

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The Weatherfield Wags down at Sarries
Need a vict'ry or they might miss out
On the play offs - Now that would be tragic:
Less a Shark - more a sorry old trout.

It seems that they're off to new waters -
Hopes for shoals down in old Stockport Bay
Accomp'nied by new ticket prices
That the fans aren't too happy to pay.

It's been a bad year for the Camel
And Buck has behaved like a chump
He criticised all those around him
And he's given the players the hump.

Old Broken's decided to leave 'em -
To Quins for a new chance to shine
The poor misguided young fella
Knows he'll always be second in line.

But they've still got their gizmos and gadgets
An exhuberant, jolly DJ
The Starlights, half time entertainment.
Shame they've got no-one left who can play.

There's a problem that's really much greater
Concerning our Bactrian chums
For Large, coming out of the closet
Joining Saints in their far northern slums.

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Summer's coming: and with it the insects
Are swarming, they really are pests.
Hibernating for most of the Winter
Now up there with Ingerland's best.

They've built a new nest down at Wycombe
For Jimmies that's not very far.
I haven't had chance yet to see it
But I'm told not go in the car.

They've a game, Saturday, 'gainst the cake-boys
The toffs, monied Chaps called the Quins
They'll be there, in their cast off Chef's trousers
Saying 'Yah!' and supping their gins.

Those colourful chaps, through the Wildcard
For the Heiny might just qualify.
But this season, like so many others
The Harlequins punch bowl is dry.

Categoric'ly though he denies it
Sicknote's orf to French pastures new
He's plain sick of the National Health Service
And in France there's a much shorter queue.

**********************************************

Now it's getting quite tight at the bottom
And I'm not here referring to piles
But if Barf take the drop from the Zippee
The land will be wall to wall smiles.

Though we all have respect for their hist'ry
Their home - the premiership pits
Set in a gorgeous location
It's a shame that it's filled up by twits -

Who seem to think God was a Bathman
And to win, their team has devine right.
To sit back and watch them all whinging -
Is an unforgetable sight.

So if Falcons beat 'em on Sat'dee
The 'old farts' might yet fight the urge
To kick poor old Barf out the Zippee
If they don't - into Bristol they'll merge.

The Falcons - a team resurrected
Their messiah a player called Jon.
If he plays they are almost unbeaten
but they lose every match when he's gone.

************************************************

There's a really big match at the Mad Jet
Where the contest will surely decide
In the coldest and barest of stadiums
The prem's number 12; the worst side.

But none of us wants to lose Bristol
We don't want the Irish to drop
Especially since Venter is going
But how can they both miss the chop?

Now if we were ever so naughty
There's a game plan we could all suggest
It's cheating, I know but the outcome
Would surely provide what is best.

If they both score 4 tries: get a bonus,
The game ends in a 20 each draw
It wouldn't matter what Barf do
'Cos 'PLOP!' they'd be through the trapdoor.

Of course, I would not condone cheating
But you must admit, it's a thought
It'd give dear old Barf their come uppance
And prove that old Briss can't be bought.

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What's written above is preamble
Now we come to the hub of the plot
'Cos Air Jimmies play Leeds at the Gardens
For the others we don't give a jot.

Now the Tykes are getting too cocky
To the 'big' league they think they belong.
They've had good results, no denying
But Sat'dee we'll show 'em they're wrong.

'Cos air lads are a might disappointed
That there's no silverware in the case
For our final game of the season
Poor Leeds'll be sunk without trace.

And who knows, we might still make the playoffs
And our friends, down the road with the humps
Might just go and do us a favour
They might, for us Saints, come up trumps.

But Whatever your thoughts or your feelings
As another year draws to a close
And we all start to dream of the future
With all of its joys and its woes.

Remember, this site never closes
I'll be here all summer through
At comeonyousaints with our playmates
But first we've a bit of a DO!

So get yourself down to the picnic
Imbibe of a bev'rage or two
Then get yourself inside the Gardens
And remember - THE JIMMIES NEED YOU!

COME ON YOU SAINTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


WMS

See you all Sat'dee.