Billy Whitehurst?s career is finally dead.
He weighed, they said, as much as three men.
Eyes closed, playing only in snatches
His lack of skill stuck out.

Such weight and thick pink bulk
Set in a player seemed not just bad,
It made him less than lifeless, further off
The ball, just like a sack of spuds.

I heckled him without feeling remorse
One feels guilty insulting the bad,
Making them worse. But Fat Billy
Did not seem able to play at all.

He was too large. Just so much
A poundage of lard and pork.
His talent had entirely gone.
He was indeed a figure of fun.

To bad to even pity.
I remember his poor play of old
No earthly use or pleasure there had been
False in his effort. He gained us no points.

I?m deadly serious. His weight
Obsessed me – how could he be moved?
No trouble in cutting him up
His use of elbows was shocking but pathetic.

Once he ran half the pitch in the hope
Of catching his opponent
Who was faster and nimbler than he was
He squealed when Billy?s tackle rended flesh.

Players must have hot blood, they have to run.
But Billy?s bite was worse than Vinny Jones?
He chopped another?s legs half off.
He spent his money down the dogs.

Distinctive, yes, but admiration no:
Billy Whitehurst was long ago finished.
I watched him for a long time. Expect to see him
Drunken and washed up on a doorstep.

Justin Horton

With apologies to Ted Hughes’s ‘View of a Pig’