Fifty quid for fifty games,
a bargain cos it was eighty the other day.
Cutting the costs to give you a show,
no ex-managers or even ex-pundits – out you go.
Where’s the studio chairs and the expensive ties?
all sacrificed in the name of premiership plus on Sky.
No interactive red button or Andy Gray,
What’s the world come to when he’s got nothing to say?
No 3D images of goal mouth actions,
just lingering replays of brand new stanchions.
Where’s the razmatazz and the 1 hour build ups?
where’s the rumour mill questions or the artificially created buzz?
No focused shot’s of buxom girls with tight crop tops,
Just a belly of a fat bloke whose thinning on top.
And what of the cheerleaders of whom we sometimes got fleeting a glance,
disapeared I’m afraid for ads for Now 138 – that’s what I call dance.
Even the channel number’s just 433,
nothing as memorable or clever as 401, 402 or 403.
Feel like football’s been robbed and our enjoyment snatched,
Not sure what we used to do before,
probably just sit there and watch the match.