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Some say that he’s a canny cove,
Some say that he’s a twit.
Some swear they just can’t work him out,
Some think that he’s the pits.
But take a stroll along King’s Road – why there the man’s a hit:
“Come in and make yourself at home, Roman Abramovich…”
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He’s got more dosh than Al Fayed,
More oil than J.R.Ewing.
There’s nous a-plenty in his head,
He knows just what he’s doing.
He’s splashed out wads to make his Squad the Pride of Stamford Bridge:
“Come in, I’m lonely on me Todd, Roman Abramovich…”
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He’s quite a snappy dresser,
He wears Armani suits.
A silk cravat and handkerchief,
Cool crocodile skin boots.
He’s loads ‘n’ loads ‘n’ loads o’ loot, he’s filthy stinkin’ rich:
“Come in and give my horn a toot, Roman Abramovich …”
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Should see him in his Counting House,
A-counting out his lolly.
He looks a proper City gent,
With bowler hat and brolly.
His teeth are filled with solid gold, a Rolex on his wrist:
“Come in, you’re welcome in my fold, Roman Abramovich…”
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He doesn’t drink, he doesn’t smoke,
He ain’t turned on by sex.
The only time he gets a buzz
Is when he’s signing cheques.
This year revamp the stadium, the next re-lay the pitch:
“Here, have a pink geranium, Roman Abramovich…”
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Some say this super-rich tycoon
Was once a Communist.
Some say he had a mis-spent youth,
And often wound up pissed.
But if he ever slings his hook, why, he’ll be sorely missed:
“Come in and take a closer look, Roman Abramovich…”
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A pad at Portofino?
A string of penthouse suites?
A yacht at Montecarlo?
Own beach at Biarritz?
The only place he wants to be, why, that’s at Stamford Bridge,
To hear the fans all chant his name: “Roman Abramovich…”
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He’s keen to buy Ronaldo,
Still lusting after Rooney.
Enquired about Rivaldo,
And even ‘bout George Clooney!
He felt quite miffed when Owen went and signed for Real Madrid:
“How dare that man turn down the chance of playing at The Bridge?!!!”
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He failed to entice Eriksson,
He got rid of Ranieri.
He didn’t fancy Ferguson,
Of Wenger he was wary.
But look, his team (thanks to José) has won the Premiership!
So now he’ll stand us all a drink: “Good on ya, Tovarish…”