Here’s a team of British players,
whose names ain’t Celt or Saxon,
so don’t look out for Alan Ball,
Kev Keegan or John Jackson.
We’d roam around the school-yard,
chanting he lived on Heinz spaghetti,
the England and Chelsea keeper,
‘The Cat’ Peter Bonetti.
His back up Eddie Niedzwiecki,
capped for Wales I do believe,
and number two George Cohen,
who could have been from Tel Aviv.
Left back I’ll have Mike Pejic,
who plied his trade at Stoke,
Pat Van Den Hauwe at number four,
someone no one could provoke.
Pete Rodrigues in at center half,
though he used to play out wide,
and to give a Spanish flavor,
Lawrie Sanchez by his side.
The midfield’s a French connection,
Le Tissier and Le Saux,
and just in front of them,
a wee man from Glas – gow,
He’ll run around the field all day,
his engine’s a Ferrari,
capped twenty four times for Scotland,
United’s Lou Macari.
For my winger I will go for,
a player who’s fast and tricky,
so it will be the old West-Bromwich star,
Welshman Dick Kryzwicki.
He’ll cross to the center forward,
who’s shouting “on me ‘ead son,”
England’s Nordic sounding player,
the super Stan Morten – son.
One sub will be Paul Gascoigne,
whose surname it is French,
and I’ll seat England’s Colin Viljoen,
beside him on the bench.
So remember all the English players,
aren’t Smiths or Stevie Stones,
and every single Welshman,
doesn’t answer out to Jones.
The Scots and Northern Irish,
don’t have to be a Mac,
cos theres other names that ships brought in,
many years aback.