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Oh Lord, from the first game to the third, you blessed us and you gave us palpable mercy,
You lowered the heat blamed for poor performance, an excuse that sparked controversy.
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With Paraguay we danced for forty five minutes, but with the islands we limped till the last ten,
Then history awakened and grasped our feet, as we stood still against the homeland of Sven.
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The voices of experts, ex-players and the experienced, all sounded like they were in the know,
They all suggested we were destined for greatness on paper, and off the paper we were ready to glow.
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But how the pitch and the paper are two very different places,
Whilst the latter lets the dreamer dream intangible dreams, the former allows the follower to blame familiar faces.
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I now see that willing is not enough, we must apply and we must do,
For the South Americans stand high on the mountain of standards, which the rest of the world looks up to.
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Yes, the saviour’s bone has healed, his foot is in a boot and his heart says play,
But how can one boy fulfil many a man’s dream, as glory requires a team, for this reason I pray.
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As the tournament progresses the groups change to knockouts, as do results from important to imperative,
Our lions too are told to change their stance, as the tamer aims to make the show more inventive.
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Fortunately I say that only Ecuador were next, where goals were predicted and we were to perform our best,
But the goals were less, the performance lesser, and the paradox was that it’s a memory to forget.
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With five men building a wall in the middle, we laid not the bridge to the boy up on his own,
Lord, it’s like you covered the beautiful night sky with cloud, through which a star flickered bright, but alone.
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An exhausted nation, knowing this one thing, may rest their heads on pillows with ease,
As they sleep they’re assured that England are winning, even without a performance to please.
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As I wipe my dried tear formed from Japan and Korea, I hear, united in passion and belief,
This great nation where all mixed races and all the world’s faces, prior to the quarters, sigh in relief.
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As my plight now ends, let me and my friends not see England arrive ‘til the ninth of July,
Lord, kneeling by my bed I give you a silent farewell, hoping that Sven gives us a glorious goodbye.
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Now I share the thoughts and prayers of a nation when I wish our boys a world of good luck,
Like the staleness of a newspaper story, let the memory of ’66 be replaced by ’06 as the year England won the FIFA World Cup.