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I went into a public house to watch a match on Sky.
I downed a coupla pints o’ beer, and scoffed some Shepherd’s Pie.
I took a pew among the throng, enquired about the score.
“It’s one-nil to the Chelsea!” the entire assembly roared.
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I popped into a barber’s shop to get a decent shave.
A game was on the radio, I asked the state of play.
The barber looked at me as if I’d just dropped in from Mars.
“It’s one-nil to the Chelsea, s’pose it’s written in the stars”.
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I filed into a stadium, the one they call “The Bridge”.
To see the Chelsea Glam Boys strut their stuff upon the pitch.
My ticket weren’t exactly cheap, it cost me sixty quid.
But “one-nil to the Home Side” was the most I got for it.
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It’s one-nil to the Chelsea, it’s one-nil to The Blues.
They make their strike, then shut up shop and hardly ever lose.
Time was they played with style and flair and banged in bags of goals.
But it’s “one-nil to the Chelsea” since Mourinho took control.
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Don’t sing that Blue’s the Colour, that Football is the Game.
Don’t say they make you happy when the skies above are grey.
Don’t call for entertainment, expect no thrills ‘n’ spills.
When José’s Boys have come to town, the score remains one-nil…