Trevor

Trevor sits back in his chair
Beneath his very boring hair
And pontificates about the game
In a voice that always stays the same.
And, as that nasal monotone
Begins to drone and drone and drone,
I feel my eyelids start to drop
And my senses start to shut up shop.

Trevor sits back in his chair
Beneath his very boring hair
And smiles at me from my T.V,
Explaining all that’s plain to see.
I know that Keane deserved to go,
I don’t need Trev to tell me so.
I know the Leed’s back four was flat,
I don’t need Trev to tell me that.

I remember Trev in his West Ham days,
He was useless in so many ways
He looked just like a pregnant yak
When running up to help attack.
He didn’t get stuck in at all,
Shut his eyes to head the ball.
His shooting skills were only crass.
His saving grace-that he could pass.

Trevor sits back in his chair
Beneath his very boring hair
And tells us all about the goal
As I reach for the remote control.
I always have to give a miss
To his expert analysis.
I can’t believe I’d had my fill
Of brilliant, witty Jimmy Hill.