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In goal she has inked Father Flanigan,
For he only lets in the poor.
At sweeper, her first cousin Ann, again,
Gran says you could eat off her floor.
At stopper, Steve Jones, the old crossing guard
(Each day Steve arrests the odd driver).
At left back the Socialist candidate Winslow
(His last start he slipped her a fiver).
At right back my Granddad, for that’s what he says
Whenever he goes out for butter.
At holding midfield Stevie G. has to yield,
For if I don’t start it will gut her.
At right wing my wealthy aunt Connie,
For Connie will pay at the pub.
At left wing great-granddaughter Bonnie,
Who normally enters a sub (but remembered Gran’s birthday this year).
Tucked into the striker, a local gang biker
Attacks while he gives some protection,
And Gran forecasts wins with her striking girl twins
Who, like me, owe their place to connection.
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We’re not picked to go through
But that’s nothing new
To the suffering English supporter.
Says she looks up to Roy
But she’s just being coy
(For Gran’s older, and quite a bit shorter).
If you’re not a huge fan of her
Choices as manager,
Love her the same, for all we know
Is love conquers all
If you’re poor on the ball,
And Gran’s hugs make her seem like Mourinho.