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A curse upon the sly cartel
That strives with cunning and with stealth
To sound it’s next door neighbour’s knell
To safeguard its colossal wealth.
But even worse, outrageous greed
Is very likely to succeed.
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Oh, when the communist ideal
Came tumbling with each Berlin brick,
Did we applaud the freedom spiel
They trotted out so smooth and slick?
Did we ascend to higher ground
By virtue of a mammoth downed?
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The democratic flag unfurled,
They justified their righteous cause.
Justice, they informed the world,
Was linked to economic laws.
And every man in every state
Must struggle to accumulate.
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No matter if they clamber high
Upon the corpses of our kin,
As they attempt to touch the sky,
With silver tongue and gold-toothed grin.
Survival of the fit and rich
With legs a-straddle Mammon’s bitch.
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And thus, way back in ninety two,
The First Division clubs grew tired
Of dishing out the pot of stew,
And muttered, grumbled and conspired.
And thus their ample waistlines bulged
When their foul plotting was indulged.
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And as their lesser kindred grieved
And struggled hard to make ends meet,
A monstrous baby was conceived,
Sprung from the loins of the elite.
Spawned by greed and base intrigue,
They named this monster ‘Premier League.’
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And while this baby put on weight
With quite voracious appetite,
The others faced uncertain fate
With nothing to relieve their plight.
Rob the poor to feed the rich –
Feeling better, tsarevich?
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And now the European cream
Are fearful that a loss of form
Might see their avaricious dream
Swept over in a thunderstorm.
And so they seek to guarantee
An end to meritocracy.
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“What if,” they ask, with heads held high,
“Through injured limbs or sheer fatigue,
Perchance we didn’t qualify
For television’s Champions League?
The places there should be reserved
For clubs with provenance deserved.
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‘And if some little upstart side
From Tallinn, Cork or Budapest
Should somehow rise upon the tide
And seek to share the wealth compressed,
We’ll spit into his eager face
To let him know his rightful place.
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‘And what concern is it to us
If lesser football clubs go bust?
Why all this rabble-rousing fuss,
When gold’s the only god we trust?
Upon the brave, good luck alights,
Along with television rights.”
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This coup d’etat has found its hour,
The common man sits bound and mute.
The very rich will seize the power
And jeer at stubborn King Canute.
No matter that we think obscene
The actions of the G14.