Mud puddle, close huddle

He can't see a thing…

The rain's so thick

It falls in sheets

And the cold cuts through his helmet and bravery.

Focused on the game

The passion in flames

Shown through his eyes but not a one knows his name.

"66" the number called

"66, cut right, I'll send you the ball."

A number on the team,

A name on a sheet

A drunk at the parties

A criminal when caught.

An identity lost, something that can't be bought.

So lay your head to sleep

And know the consequences will be deep

So come what may

And slaughter us like sheep.