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Right behind the goalmouth, on the Gwlady Street,
Mates, I still remember that’s where we used to meet.
Diehard supporters, home, away,
We never missed a single game.
But now? I’m stuck in exile, in sunny Italee.
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More than thirty years gone, yet I can recall
Those three Midfield Maestros named Harvey, Kendall, Ball.
When shall we see such players again?
Perhaps one day across in Spain.
But I’ve seen nothing like them in sunny Italee.
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Big Bob was my Hero, he wore the Number Nine.
Dobson was immortal, McKenzie was divine.
Thomas and Goodlass, Rioch, King,
They rang my bell, made my heart sing.
That same heart now is yearning, in sunny Italee.
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Filthy UK weather you simply cannot trust,
See the sun bright shining, then comes a fierce cloudburst.
Here we sunbathe from dawn till dusk,
And when it rains, we thank our luck,
No, we’re not short of sunshine in sun-kissed Italee.
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English grub is lousy – eggs, bacon, fish ‘n’ chips,
Meat pies, mash ‘n’ bangers, such fare just makes me sick.
Pizza and pasta suit me fine,
I sup no ale, I sip red wine.
For sure, we feast like kings here, in sun-blest Italee.
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Then there are more plus-points – bronzed women and flash cars.
Natives are quite friendly, averse to fighting wars.
And, fancy seeing a round ball kicked?
There’s teams a-plenty, take your pick,
But you can’t watch the Toffees out here in Italee.
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Totti and Del Piero, Ibrahimovic,
Such Star Names are to be seen parading on the Pitch.
Why feel those symptoms of withdrawal?
You’re well-provided with football,
But no Big Dunc or Cahill in sunny Italee.
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So, if I pine for news of Everton,
I must seek an English Tab or website and log on.
Or, p’rhaps subscribe to Sky TV.
Yes, that would be the thing for me,
A poor Bluenose in exile way down in Italee…