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Dear Mr Hodgson, it’s time we latched on
To what winning World Cups is about
In writing this poem I trust you’re well in the know
On the lack of support for your players just now.
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With the chalice of victory there in our grasp
Fate on occasion has painfully erred
Deeming us to be short of the mettle that’s sought
To be victors, the dogs or preferred.
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The fan indoors perched (sic) on his/her sofa
Fish n chips nervously plaiced (sic) on their lap
Knows too well that a team, it’s defence all at sea
Will get battered (sic) unless we cop on and react.
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Since our last title, we’re feasting on maybes
Nearlys, almost’s and what if’s?
Indeed it’s that far away in the harsh light of day
I often confuse it, with a win circa 1066.
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This is written with plenty of notice
That the nation expects you to compete
Not offer excuses or toothless millionaire interviews
Putting a lack of commitment all down to the heat.
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So I’m pleading to you Mr Hodgson and co
Prior to next summers World Cup in Brazil:
To forgo monetary offers, greedy advertisers may proffer,
Turn up primed, fit and proud, sing the anthem out loud,
As those here at home undoubtedly will!