Some say this footers for the birds.
Vagabonds and thieves
Prima donna’s, Wyatt Earps
And pseudo Mother Teresa’s.
Tis said in darkest depths of night
When floodlight beams are broken
That Bobby Moore still keeps it tight
Whilst strolling cross The Boleyn.
Come on Pele take him on
Attack fair blonde adonis
Gadzooks ye better be on song
He’s loyal, strong and honest.
Watch him plaudit hero Banks
For save beneath the upright
Whilst Pele stood there head in hands
Can’t quite believe his eyesight.
We search for inspiration
One chance to win the game
Jeff Astle’s lack of concentration
Means he’ll never be our saint.
That fine divide between a winning side
Or one who’s on a jet
Brought gloom on nation like a slight
Us youngsters won’t forget.
Laid on the floors we watched the game
In sultry black and white
Could German fervour be restrained
By eleven knights from blighty?
Could Big Jack quell his temper
Would Alan Ball roll on
George Cohen, when he centred
Would he aim for Roger Hunt?
Ray Wilson in his finest hour
Played a blinding game
As R.Charlton with his shooting power
Silenced Wembley stadium
The father, son and holy ghost
Are most folks favourite three sirs
Yet Bobby Moore, Geoff (hat rick) Hurst
Come close with Martin Peters.
Uwe Seeler, Franz Beckenbauer
Karl-Heinze Schellinger et al
Were beat, eclipsed by brighest stars
Sent shooting by Sir Alf.
A nation lost it’s head that day
There were parties in the streets
As Nobby knackered from the fray
Danced proud with knobbly knees.