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Are the Belgians apoplectic when they fail to qualify?
Do they need the coach’s head upon a plate?
In Budapest do untoward recriminations fly
When group results do not turn out that great?
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Do disappointed Latvians carp bitterly and cry,
Lambasting their poor manager with hate?
And in shivering Helsinki, when all hope has slithered by,
Does a trickle of abuse become a spate?
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But in England, lovely England, expectation’s way too high,
Its always been an Anglo-Saxon trait,
A second tier nation who will rarely touch the sky,
No matter what the journalists dictate.
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And now another scapegoat; yet another has to die,
Because he couldn’t punch above his weight.
From Robson through to Eriksson, the best have had a try,
But silk purses are so hard to recreate.