Hand in gloves
These gloves are tired,
They’ve done their bit,
For fifty goals,
They’ve held my stick.
These gloves have worn thin,
And come unstuck,
With fifty goals,
They’ve directed the puck.
These gloves show palms,
Leave fingers exposed,
But for fifty goals,
They’ve been composed.
A scent-fresh pair,
Has arrived from the shop,
Here’s to fifty more goals,
And Fire at the top.
Thanks, dear friends,
For the work you’ve done,
And those fifty goals,
I’m sad that you’ve gone.
NixonScan 
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Nice. Who wrote it?
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This poem was written by myself in Dec 2017.
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