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Rose tinted glasses conceal the plain facts
Our present idols are not what they seem.
Compared to halcyon past where we watched from the track
When real icons sliced Hovis for tea.
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In the bombsites the Luftwaffe left with us
We daubed hero’s names on scarred walls.
One brave goalie one night, caught a pained solar plexus
For insisting “Bert Trautmann” be called.
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Gil Merrick, Frank Swift me late father would tell me
Were wonderful custodians of the net?
Yet it’s Trautmann made history, as the bravest of goalies
For keeping goal, with an unknown broken neck.
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When I went with me mates games were awesome
We’d a new world of discovery, set free
Till the first taste of real hate blew me right out of the water
Showered on Don Revie’s Leeds.
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Pea soupers and downpours could never deter us
When the singing inspired our young souls
Twenty minutes ago we were bunking the bus
Now… stood in the rain, we were belting it out like Caruso.
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To the clacking of rattles the two teams ran out
Smoke wafted up toward the sky
Those of us packed in like cattle were never in doubt:
“It was all out for the win or die trying”.
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Medicine like footballs, almost weighing a ton
Baggy shorts that reached down to the knee
As I vaguely recall Matthews and an on fire Mortensen
Turning a grainy game round at Wembley?
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“We’re playing too many matches, my players are tired”
We’re paying salaries that could fund a small state
Well here’s one fan remembers: the real stars in our eyes,
And Mary Hopkin sang ”Those Were The Days!”