To The "Muddied Oaf"

    My dear Muddied Oaf, -
    While still a youth and all unknown to fame,
    I went to school.
    And on a certain Saturday
    I put on a beautiful blue jersey, and some striped knickers,
    And betook myself into a damp field
    With my hands nice and clean,
    And my hair parted.
    Within an hour's time
    My shins had the appearance of a broken paint can,
    My garments were covered with mud,
    One of my teeth had somehow got swallowed,
    And my hair was out of joint.
    When I come to think of it,
    In that hour I must have been a Muddied Oaf,
    Though I did not know what to call myself.
    And no doubt on that and successive Saturday afternoons
    I won my various journalistic Waterloos,
    And contracted a stubborn cardiac hypertrophy
    Which is even yet with me.
    For nigh twenty years, however,
    I have never, to my knowledge,
    Taken part in a football match;
    And, in spite of Mr. Kipling,
    I do not propose to indulge again
    In either Rugby or the other thing.
    Youth loves to be muddied;
    In old age one flings one's mud at other people.
    I don't know, my dear Muddied Oaf,
    How you like being called a Muddied Oaf.
    The average Muddied Oaf of my acquaintance
    Will not in the least understand
    What Muddied Oaf means,
    And even when a dozen reporters
    Have explained it to him, dictionary in hand,
    He will not care.
    You cannot take the glory of having crumpled up the Footleum Otspurs out of a man
    By calling him Muddy;
    And as for Oaf,
    When all is said
    It is a poor synonym for "dashing forward."
    No, my dear boy,
    Phrases out of poems cannot damp your ardours.
    And, so far as you are concerned,
    Mr.
    Rudyard
    Kipling
    May
    Be
    Blowed!
    All the same, I assure you
    As an old muddifier
    That there is a great deal in what the gentleman says.
    To a delicate age,
    Rifle practice presents many attractions:
    To shoot out of a No. 1 rifle
    At a choice array of clay pipes, dancing globules, and cardboard rabbits
    Is on the face of it
    A gentleman's job:
    You can do it with your hair parted:
    And providing you don't get betting drinks
    That you will ring the bell every time,
    It doesn't cost much.
    Regular practice
    At the ordinary shooting booths
    Will no doubt make a soldier and a gentleman of you,
    And teach you to fear no Boer in shining armour.
    These are points worth considering.
    Also, the game does not hurt.
    You need no lemon to help you through with it,
    You run no risk of dislocation, fracture, hypertrophy, gouged eye, or broken neck,
    You are on velvet all the time.
    And when it comes to calling names,
    You will have the honour and glory
    Of being set down for a gallant and gilt-edged
    Defender of your country,
    Ponder it, O Muddied One,
    And be wise.