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Only too happy to take the cheers, the acclaim
Of the masses in the stands when you score a
Goal. But come the end of the game and you’re
Back inside your bubble world; the gated gaff in
Acres away from it all. Away from daily drudgery
In the towns where you ply your trade every match
Day. Towns where punters live their lives, working
Shifts, paying bills – or not. Struggling on, only the
Thought of the next game to brighten things a little.
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Sleek cars, fancy watches, glamourous WAGs,
Dubious morals, dodgy friends; a self-made circus
Of indulgence on a grotesque scale – so alien to the
Fans who bear your name and number across their
(Overpriced) replica shirts. So who’s to blame for
This crazy, convoluted, cash-sodden chaos ? Is it
Players, agents, clubs, media, the men from abroad
Who think everything is subservient to the great lure
Of money; where and when will the whole thing end.
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In theory, a contest – in practice a carve-up between
Four clubs. And still, way below the Greed League, 72
Others with a cat in hell’s chance of real advancement.
And that’s how they want it, the owners of these mega
Brands that will play anywhere, if the price is right. So
Stuff the supporters, they’re too stupid to stop paying
Whatever we decide to charge. They’re all addicted to
This false promise we peddle on TV – day in, day out.
The beautiful game gone ugly, a people’s game no more