I visited a “Sports shop”
At least that’s what they’re called
Though, looking at the stuff they sell,
Frankly I’m appalled.
Trainers that will never train;
Shorts like Oxford bags -
With a specially shaped pocket
Where you can keep your fags.
Football shirts that will never play soccer,
Nor come home covered in muck;
Rugby shirts that will never scrum down
Or huddle in a ruck.
Jogging bottoms that will never jog
Nor even break out in a sweat;
Running vests that will never run:
On that you can safely bet.
Tops with brand-names blazoned,
Like Sprint and Dash and Flying
Though Stagger and Stumble would be more apt,
Considering the folks that are buying.
But I searched through piles and stacks of stuff,
Til at last, in spite of the tedium,
I found what I wanted so asked the assistant,
“I don’t suppose you’ve got these in medium?”
“I’ll ‘ave to go and see,” she said,
But I thought she was playing a joke.
It was eleven minutes before she returned
Unmistakably reeking of smoke.
“We’ve lots of other tracksuits
But if you wanted one of these –
We don’t do them in medium;
We only do them in obese.”
But I’d searched for so long
It was going for a song
Now I’d found it I just had to cling to it
I’ll keep hold of my prize
Whatever the size
And hope that one day I’ll grow into it.