From best to worst they were plucked from the bench,
The ginger and freckled one, always last, 
An ugly kid whose mum they named the wench,
Butt of all their jokes, first to bully fast, 

His hand me down clothes, third hand at the least,
Masking talent that one could only dream,
Un-beknowst to them, their loss-what a waste, 
Instead served to make them laugh, joke and scream,

Ten were chose, plus the burden-dumped in net,
To be yelled at when goals came thick and fast,
'You're a crap, useless-trampy ginger get!' 
'Now can't you see why you're always picked last?' 

This pattern followed for a long, long time, 
But not too long for England's number nine.