An Ode to Mick Ennis

He strolls around in blue and white, Fleet of foot and his spirits bright, He himself, is the ultimate menace, His name of course is Michael Ennis.

A number nine, they do not rest
Like any ravenous scavenging pest
He’s in the maul and in the ruck
He’s in your face like a pesky… person

The referees, they let him talk
An extra 10 metres, they never walk
He holds up play with a brief little chat
With the swagger of a childhood brat

He provides opponents with extra stress
Like red wine stains on a wedding dress
He’s in your face, he’s on your back
Cause it’s ten in the bin if you give him a whack

Hitting halfbacks late, and pats on the head
Skipper Cam Smith was seeing red
He harassed Reynolds, with a thump and grin
Yet somehow managed to avoid the bin

Love him or hate him, he won’t go away
Just like herpes, he’s here to stay
But no longer a dog, he’ll soon be a shark
A Southern Cross tattoo will be his mark

Yet now it seems he’s hurt his foot
His grand final chance seems kaput
A stellar season and we all salute you
I just hope I never bloody meet you