Middle East homes are being destroyed,
villages turned to soot,
but all that England cares about is David Beckham’s foot.
4 years ago he was, the nations enemy number one.
Now to the two faced press and public,
he’s blightys favorite son.
It’s not as if he is a genius, even when not lame,
it’s just they need a hero, and Beckham is his name.
Willing to forgive, missed penalties against Deutchland,
but not Bonneti, Revie, or Maradonna’s hand.
They blamed Ramsey in 73, and Tomasheski the diving Pole,
whose only crime that evening, was to superbly defend his goal.
They slagged off Bobby Robson, and hated Graham Taylor,
saying both of them were useless, and both of them a failure.
Now they are the bees knees again, they cannot do no wrong,
as the press laugh at their eccentricities, and Joe Public goes along.
They built up poor old Gazza, because in the semi’s of 90 he cried,
then slowly tore him down, as in his private life they pried.
Venables was their favorite, that was plain to see,
as he let the press in his club ‘Scribes’ where they could drink for free.
So you drink for nowt, in a top class club, where a pint it costs a fiver,
their’s no way you will write next day, that EL TEL’s a conniver.
As a country becomes intimate with a left foot, which I think is sad,
Blair loves the deflection as he gets ready to bomb Baghad.
Each day about his foot, the papers will be full,
with a tiny paragraph, on page 10, about a massacre in Kabul.
So a nation will hold its breath, while a physician removes his cast,
and if it’s unsuccessful, flags will be flying at half mast.
The country will consist, of 50 million mourners,
and in the House of Commons, they’ll debate who’ll now take corners.
If it is successful,—there’ll be national mass hysteria,
” bring on the Swedes, the Argies, and the Eagles of Nigeria.
The press have built him up now, nearly to the top,
but if the World Cup disappoints, they will quickly let him drop.
They’ll say he had an affair, with a geisha girl in Tokyo.
and posh was playing, away from home
with a scouser called – Pinnochio.
Poor Brooklyn won’t go unscathed, just because he’s three,
the press will accuse him maliciously, of using L.S.D.
So as I end up this poem to, — go out and get pissed,
it will be just my luck, that in the pub I’ll be next to a chiropodist.