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I might be an ould one who pines for days past:
When sliced Hovis were toasted on fire,
Or along the Kings Road after bunking off class
Watched Peter Osgood dump cloggers in mire.
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I’ve sat back impressed as an elfin George Best
Tore Ron (Chopper) Harris to shreds
Or looked on in awe as a stunned Denis Law
Sent United through the trap door of dread.
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I’ve seen some wonderful games, infinite names
Score goals made me heart miss a beat
Watched Johann Cryuff do “that turn” at our place
You had to be there to actually believe it.
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Now there’s talk of five referee’s, goal line technology
Celery being banned at The Bridge
A cap on player’s wages, fresh meat pies and savouries
Skinny latte’s, with fans drinking Bovril to cease.
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Hotdogs with onions are gorne, sushi and quorn
Is the new fare for us punters to relish?
Don’t changes make you sick, if it ain’t broke don’t fix it
Like the frying onions on match days I cherish.
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So great change is a coming, to the game we all love
A new ball please, or why must one pass?
But what bothers me more than any of the above
Is why The BBC put out Motson and Davies to grass?