England, My England
¶ 1
Leave a comment on verse 1 0
Lennon and Walcott
Tying the knots in our formation
But Sven won’t commit
It’s a mystery
With only a ghost of a chance
We all stare, askance
At each selection and tactic
He hasn’t a clue
Plays 4-4-2
Though most of his strikers are sick
Fans aim higher
But Sven doesn’t inspire
With his silence and denials
Rooney snacks on half chances
Beckhams name in concrete
On the teamsheet
His boots now made from the same stuff
We want so much to win the World Cup
And we might have got away with it
If he’d only played those pesky kids!
Comments
0 Comments on the whole Poem
Create an account to leave a comment on the whole Poem
0 Comments on verse 1
Create an account to leave a comment on verse 1