I’ll never play Rugby against the Lancers again,
They really play roughly and mean.
Their Captain rejoices in administering pain,
And their pack is a killing machine.
For the last time we played ‘gainst the Lancers,
They chased us all over the field.
They called us a bunch of gay dancers,
Until finally we all had to yield.
One of their players is as tough as old boots,
With looks that would scare any child,
His hair’s scary red to its very thick roots,
And his smile is the wrong side of mild.
He plays number seven and we all keep well clear,
His arms look like hammers of steel.
After the match he drinks gallons of beer,
As he troughs down a ginormous meal.
His chest is as hairy as hairy can be,
And his breath stinks of whisky and gin.
His face carries scars that we all can see,
As he gives us his death-laden grin.
I’m frightened to death of this horrible man,
But luckily I can run quicker,
So I dodge number seven whenever I can,
And he’s just their Regiment’s vicar.