We know you’re already way too excited. But for those who are living under a rock on another planet, the Six Nations championship kicks off tomorrow. As a feast of rugby awaits, we don’t know what to do with ourselves before the ball is kicked off in Murrayfield tomorrow afternoon.
One Reddit user’s (Albi-13) excitement has gotten the better of them, and they took to poetry.
‘Twas the night before 6mas, when all through the land
Not a rugger was quiet with the excitement at hand;
The beers were placed in the cooler with care,
In hopes Nigel Owens soon would be there;
The forwards were dreaming of tight stable scrums;
While backs wished for quick ball, great tries and the sun.
And Canna in the pocket, and Bronzin with three caps,
Had just warmed up their brains for a penalty tap,
When up on the screen there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my couch to see what was the matter.
Dylan Hartley was named again as the captain
Despite six weeks out for his ill-advised slappin’
The rose on his chest was heaving with pride
And he’d “worked on his tackles” to avoid going high.
The green shirts of Ireland I’ll always hold dear,
the humour, garry-owens and excellent beer,
bring a smile to my face as quick as their backs
And let’s not forget, they beat the All Blacks.
The Scots have their nine, Greig Laidlaw by name,
A highland commander when he marshals the game;
“Now, Jonny! now, Richie! now Gilchrist and Barclay!
On, Watson! on, Swinson! on, Wilson and Harley!
Clear out the rucks and drive hard in the maul!
Now dash away! dash away! I must box-kick the ball!”
Now see France build a team with their penchant for flair;
Not really, I’m sorry, Fofana’s not there.
So Bastareaud they call and he’s got quite the rep,
For being the fattest in rugby with a decent side-step.
And then, good old Wales, with their movable roof,
They sing like the angels and are ultimate proof,
That size is not everything in our favourite game,
Just look at their patron, the beloved Saint Shane.
He was small and all muscle, always brought the ball forth,
In a style rather different than that of George North,
Who carries opponents around on his back
Though concussions have stifled his head-on attack.
Azzurro’s my colour, but I always do dread,
That the Beeb will mess up; the flag’s green white THEN red!
The words of our anthem (it’s the best of the six)
They mark us as brothers and the nation transfix,
The sight of Parisse sends us over the moon,
and we’ll always come back, with or without wooden spoon.
If you’ve managed to read so far in this verse,
I sincerely apologise, though it was initially worse!
But the game and the tournament have me bursting with joy.
Every year it’s a treat, so you’ll forgive the small boy
That I become every February when the matches begin,
and that pushed me to share my starry-eyed grin
In this horrible poem, and I know you’ve been patient,
so Merry Rugby to all and enjoy the Six Nations!