  i actually memorised a poem attributed to more than one person: tender handed stroke a nettle, and it stings you for your pains.
grasp it like a man of mettle, and soft as silk remains. not the kind of poem you'd relate to someone who is asking you why you practically stampeded through deep patch after deep patch of mud at football. and one caucasian fellow who met us later asked if i'd played soccer. (it could have been rugby, or rugger as known to some brits, but i was rather clean from the knees up. ) i said "they only call it soccer in the united states," and smiled beatifically, which somewhat removed his smile a bit and cy made a stupid grin and cocked a wry head american-style and said "actually, only the united states and singapore", which he found unusually witty. so much for linguistic consistency, dear SPH writers, you guys suck at it. not that we're about to correct their language, maybe cy, but not me. or alice. bye. 
