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In the nineties, English football was going through a stage,
Where the collecting of Norwegian stars was simply all the rage.
Eyes turned eastward cross the sea, toward the tundra region,
As football teams all strived to own their very own Norwegian.
From the height of Man United, to the depths of poor old Wimble-
Don, the purchase of a Norse was quite a status symbol.
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Michael Ingdom played full back for a certain football club,
Peripherally, or so it seemed, around the midfield hub.
One of football’s journeymen, he’d never win a cap,
Although he was a tireless and a very honest chap.
Always level-headed, he was strong and quite dependable,
But the Chairman had decided that poor Michael was expendable.
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The Chairman had been beaten by the new Norwegian bug,
Though any time one asked him, he dismissed it with a shrug.
Finances though were parlous, there was little cash to spare
In order to entice a decent player from out there.
But such considerations did not bring him to a stop,
For he hit upon the brilliant, dazzling notion of a swap.
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Ingdom was the player, and he started to arrange
That he would go to Bergen, as a very fair exchange.
But the Norwegians showed no interest in the aforementioned Michael,
And told the bullish Chairman to get back upon his cycle.
The Chairman went on telly to promote his case with force,
“A Norse! A Norse!” he offered them, “Mike Ingdom for a Norse!”