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.
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