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