I’m here to reminisce today,of times that have gone by,
when goal-keepers could catch the ball and wingers they could fly.
I think back to the year of nineteen-seventy,
and to my mind comes vixions of Sir Alf and Bertie Mee.
So I sit back now and wonder and start to reminiisce
and I start to make a note of all the things I miss.
I miss Law, Best and Charlton, the holy trinity,
and up the road at City, Lee, Bell and Summerbee.
I miss the school of Science, Harvey,Kendall, Ball.
and the Liverpool intelligentia,Heighway and Brian Hall.
Their was some real hard cases, unlike nowadays,
the likes of Stiles and Storey would terrify the Krays.
The players today are fitter and run around much faster,
but they’re pumped up full of nutrients and force fed lousy pasta.
The modern players love— to show their abs off when they score,
and find the nearest puddle and slide along the floor.
I miss the Scottish wingers and the crosses they supplied,
you never had a chance without atleast one in your side.
I miss the terrace surge and the chanting of the crowd,
and the mighty Kop at Liverpool, where they sang ” Walk on” out loud.
Players like Greaves and Osgood they liked to drink and bet,
but when it came to Saturday, they always found the net.
So while the Nevilles and Petit are tucked up with their toys,
Mackay, Gilzean and Baxter were drinking with the boys.
Now, you win a tackle it means on your sleeve you wear your heart,
and if you use your left foot, for England you can start.
I miss the breed of manager who came up from the pit,
who could control his players and wouldn’t take no shit.
I miss the players chewing gum and spitting on the floor,
I miss the Highbury North Bank and the Roker Roar.
Our goalies were the cream,—- of the world wide ranks,
Shilton, Jennings, Stepney—-Bonnetti,Wilson,Banks.
Now they need a special coach to teach them punching ball,
and they’ve probably got a voice coach to teach them how to call.
I remember goalies rubbing mud into an ungloved palm,
at places like the Baseball ground which was like a muddy farm.
Now they dribble cockily, towards the half-way line,
but a nice Ron Davis body charge would surely change their mind.
I miss the sliding tackle on a rainy day ,
as I think of Chopper Harris and Celtic’s David Hay.
The players rarely missed a match cos they needed every coin,
no pulling up in pre match and crying “ooooh my groin.”
The team sheet for many teams was the same on each match day,
Leeds started with Sprake in goal and eleven Eddy Gray.
Arsenal had Bob Wilson and ended with Armstrong,
and you were not a cult figure cos your name was sung in song.
I miss Carlos Satori and Chelsea’s Charlie Cook,
and “Arry Cripps ” at Millwall and City’s Tony Book.
Ian Harte and Beckham, kings of the dead ball,
but with the old lace up heavy weight , what would be their toll?
No! we had no moaning Dutchmen,or money grabbing French,
and we only needed one sub to sit upon the bench.
So as I watch the likes of Bergkamp,—Anelka and Verone,
where art thou Jim Montgomery, where are you Dick Malone.
So good luck to the premier, where everyone’s a star,
but I still yearn for the seventies and the likes of Willie Carr.