By John Reddin
The "Darts" were getting beaten,
As we went into the fray,
To the slaughter we were used to
And it happened every day
That we pulled our socks and boots on
And then made it to the field,
To be kicked and punched and bloodied,
It was great to never yield,
Never crying, never moaning,
Never giving up the ghost,
With our hearts just set on scoring
Get the ball behind the post
And then one day, bloody Jacko
Got the ball and all we saw,
Was him running for the try line
With his battered number four
All in pieces, from the tackling,
He was running very hard,
And we yelled and screamed and cried out,
"Go on Jacko, score the yard"
And he did, and then we rushed in
We were feeling so sublime
That we didn't even notice
When the Ref had made the sign
For our Jacko to be sent off
When a linesman made the call
That a Jacko indiscretion
Meant we hadn't scored at all.
We'd been beaten once too often
And a melee then commenced
Caused by comments from the "Red" men
We were really quite incensed
Then we kicked and clawed our way
Into our football's hall of shame
With our one and only record
We had never won a game.
So from that day until this
Whenever I get near a ground
That has been prepared for football
And I feel like going 'round
With the others who are out there
I remember what was said
About the time that Jacko bombed it,
Stuffed it, blew it, lost his head
And the rest of us were saddened
Almost wishing we were dead
From the ranting and the ravings
Of opposing men in red
"It's a mans game, little women
Go back home and do your chores
Make the beds and cook some bikkies
You're a wimpy bunch of whores!"
And I always shall remember
As I sit here with my stuff
Of the time that we were sent off, as a team,
For playing rough
By the ref whose name escapes me
Yes escapes me ever more
When we really "stuck it to 'em"
None in our team was a whore
Poor old Jacko never played again
Nor did the other "Darts"
We were banned for taking liberties
With "Red" men's private parts.
