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I went into a public house around two fifty-five.
I ordered half a pint of beer, a steak and kidney pie.
I asked the landlord: “Tell me, Sir, ain’t there a match on soon?
It’s almost three, have I still time to pop into the loo?”
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The landlord looked at me and said: “There’s nowt so queer as folk.
You ask me if a match is on. Is this some kind of joke?
A game today was played indeed, but you’ve turned up too late.
It kicked off at eleven in the mornin’.”
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I dropped into a barber’s shop to get a decent shave.
A match was on the radio, but my team wasn’t playing.
I asked the barber: “Why? How come?” He gave a shrug and sighed:
“Your lot played at eleven in the mornin’.”
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I headed for a stadium (no, it ain’t called “The Bridge”).
To see my football idols strut their stuff upon the pitch.
I got there about half-past two, but found the Ground was bare –
They’d started at eleven in the mornin’…
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Time was we worked eight hours a day, five days a week like dogs.
On Friday night we sank some pints down at our nearest pub.
Come Saturday we’d stay a-bed and have a nice lie in.
We’d sleep until eleven in the mornin’.
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Then we’d get up and make ourselves a nice, hot cuppa tea.
We’d wolf down lunch, then all traipse off to cheer our local team.
And sure of one thing you could be – the match began at three –
No other time in afternoon or mornin’.
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But ain’t you heard? Now TV’s king, we fans must change our ways.
It’s Meejah Moguls pull the strings, and we know what they say:
“The match kicks off at twelve or two, at four or six or eight…”
And what next? At eleven in the mornin’?
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In which case, draw your blinds real tight.
And log-like sleep all through the night.
You’ll have to be just like the lark, and get up early bright,
At some unholy hour in the mornin’!