a spot of poetry

It is going into the year two thousand and ten,
All of the mustardos are wondering when,
The beautiful criminal will make her way,
To mustard terrace on a scorching Sunday.

The forthcoming summer is an important one,
All the business on the field needs to be done.
But win or lose, our heart is yours,
Mustardos never lose, because there are whores.

The Landrigan brothers are sure to blister up,
Apparently grunta and the chief are too grownup
For nudity and antics, foreskin aplenty,
The record for funnelling is just over twenty.

‘Stop it you guys, you’re killing yourself’,
Be sure to get the party pill up, over the shelf.
For we don’t care, it’s our special occasion,
Could this be the season for our first Mustard asian?

Perhaps this year Lakey, will keep his mouth shut,
Lets hope we see Falcor, That big ginormous mutt.
Josh Barretts secret is that he’s Van West,
Hodgey, no doubt, will be glued to Ze Best.

For those young hooligans eyeing up a spot,
We dare you to get down and lick Spuds rot,
Or take on our physio in the nude terrace dash,
Or grab Ali Jordan, and give him a pash.

We love to hear stories of the hunt for tail,
So join us after church to chase the Holy Grail.
For we love the Naki, and victories we savour,
Putting Mustard on your hotdog gives it so much more flavour.