Vanity Fair (UK), April 27, 1905

(According to the Express, a Passive Resisters’ Football Team has been formed in a country town.)

WE are the latest champions
 To range the football field;
They gnash their teeth in far Blackheath
 With envy unconcealed.
We’re coached by Dr. Clifford
 In all his passive lore.
A modest sub. supports the club:
 Our motto’s simply, “Gore!”

Our rules are rather stringent;
 When candidates appear,
They’re always “pilled” unless they’ve killed
 At least one auctioneer.
(Though honorary members
 We frequently let in,
If they have blacked an eye, or cracked
 Policemen on the shin.)

We’re well equipped for battle,
 We don’t leave much to chance;
It’s really quite a martial sight
 To see our men advance.
The forwards carry sandbags
 To stem the foe’s attacks;
A vitriol-can has every man
 Of our three-quarter backs.

We don’t go in for passing,
 The scrum we never wheel;
Lines out from touch don’t please us much,
 Our forwards rarely heel.
We’re not first-class at packing,
 We play an open game;
And ever grows the list of those
 Our knuckle-dusters maim.

And when the match is over,
 And our Resisting team
Has lost by shoals of tries and goals
 Mark how their eyeballs gleam!
They sidle, breathing vengeance,
 Towards the referee.
At Kensal Green his corpse is seen
 Next morning. R.I.P.

P. G. Wodehouse.