It was mid way through the season
We were just outside the four
And although I know we won it
I can't think of the score.
But there's one thing I remember
And to me it says a lot
About the men who front the scrum -
The men we call "the props".
We won a hard-fought scrum
And the backs went for a run
The flankers quickly ripped the ball
And the second phase was won.
Another back then crashed it up
And took it to the line
Another maul was duly set
To attack them one more time.
The forwards pushed and rolled the maul
Made sure the work was done
The last man in played loose head prop
The ball was pushed in to his hands
He held it like a beer
Then simply fell to score the try
His first in 15 years.
Then later, once the game was done
He sat amidst the team
He led the song and called himself
The try-scoring machine.
But it wasn't till the night wore on
That the truth was finally told
Just three beers in, he'd scored the try and also kicked the goal.
At 7 o'clock the try was scored
By barging through their pack
He carried two men as he scored
While stepping 'round a back.
By eight he'd run twenty yards
Out-sprinting their quick men
Then beat their last line of defence
With a Jonah Lomu fend.
By nine he'd run from near half way
And thrown a cut-out pass
Then looped around and run again
No one was in his class.
By ten he'd run from end to end
His teammates were now bored
He chipped and caught it on the full
Then swan dived as he scored.
By eleven he'd drunk 2 dozen beers
But still his eyes did glisten
As he told the story of that try
His chest filled up, as he spoke
His voice was filled with pride
He felt for sure he would be named
Next week the captain of the side.
By nights end he was by himself
Still taking on his own
The lights were out, the bar was shut
His mates had all gone home.
And that's why I love my front row
They simply never stop
And why I always lend an ear
When a try's scored by a prop.