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Homeward, English Soldiers, Gerrard, Rooney, Lamps.
Homeward empty-handed, not all-conqu’ring Champs.
Yet again you’ve blown it, after all the hype.
Don’t hold it against us if we grouse or gripe.
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Once the English Navy reigned over the waves.
And we swore we never ever would be slaves.
Look how far we’ve fallen, how low we have sunk:
We can’t lay our hands on more than one World Cup!
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We invented Football in its modern form.
(Also Cricket, Rugby, Tennis played on lawns.)
Yes, we’re very good at dreaming up new sports.
Pity with our Rivals all that counts for nought.
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We invented Football? They are not impressed.
When we square up to them, we are Second Best.
Upstart foreign nations put us in our place.
Victory’s sweet nectar seldom do we taste.
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Homeward, David Beckham, Captain of the Crew.
Poor sod, I’d not fancy being in your shoes.
This time was your last chance, this your last Campaign.
Now for you it’s downhill, downhill all the way.
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Homeward, Swedish Gaffer, to your Native Land.
‘Twas fun while it lasted, but it had to end.
We bear you no rancour, you spiced up our lives.
Shame the Tabloid Press kept sticking in their knives.
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Forward, Steve McClaren, into the Hot Seat.
We are sick and tired of always getting beat.
“Lead us on to Glory!”, that’s our plaintive cry.
‘Cos you know we’re England, England till we die.