Although I had no gift for sports,
he made me shiver in my shorts
through rain and hail and sleet and snow,
berating me for being slow.
Now Mr. Dicker's good and dead,
I come to damn the bullethead
to some dark Hell wherein, for all
eternity, a rugby ball
smacks endlessly against his wet
and goosebumped thighs. I don't forget.
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