Endless tales of mad chicanery
Drunken injured louts who fight
I’m not talking of fans like you and me
But primed athletes out on a night.
I hear the news on the latest deals
And the riches that they’ll gain
As agents wind us up with their spiel
Of “My poor man is but a slave”.
I know wayback t’was a different game
Them days of baggy shorts and brylcreem
But I’d give all to have been Juste Fontaine,
To have plyed my trade at Rheims.
As a mere enfant from Marrakesh
Who made his home in mainland France
Injured at twenty seven, and forced to retire
His tally scored still stands.
Up alongside Raymond Kopa
France were c’est formidable
I see so called idols playing today
Only fit to grace a card school.
Thirteen goals in one World Cup finals
That’s not too bad, I can hear you say
And those who aspire to wind up in jail
Will they peak like Juste Fontaine?