Sunday, Sunday
¶ 1
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Oh, Sunday, Sunday
Used to be the day of the week
When players used to be meek
Ever so sleek
But tough as teak
Then West Ham discovered
Although never recovered
From their fourth consecutive
Sunday
It had to be this day
This time at Villa Park
Ready to be on the mark
I’ve never been one to complain
About late summer sun poised to wane
First there was City at home
Leave your grievances alone
Then Forest found a sun dappled spot
Hammers beaten, surely not
And then to make matters worse
When most of us thought
There had been a curse
Brighton visited the East End
How were we driven around the bend
Sunday, Sunday
Please refrain from this day
Sundays were days of rest
After the week provided the
Ultimate test
When the tools of labour
Prompted our neighbour
To take sympathy and pity
West Ham now away from
The City
2.00 in yet more fields
Brandishing yet more shields
Of claret and blue
When David Moyes and you
Will wonder why they can
Please, please no longer
There has to be a ban
Eat your roast
Make a toast
For Sundays when
Sir Geoff once mowed
His grass in his den
After 66 World Cup glory
That perfect story
But Villa it is on the
Sabbath day of recreation
Across the nation
Noisy neighbours Spurs
Next weekend
On Saturday perhaps
Please send
Some welcome respite
No more spite
Just a 3.00 kick off
Tomorrow
No more sorrow
Just tradition and conflict
Don’t inflict
Sunday lunchtime
Yorkshire pudding
And wine
Football be kind
Make sure the Irons
Don’t fall behind
Propping up the top
Flight
Every single night
On the hour
Singularly lacking
In fire power
Through to
The group stage
On the next page
Of Euro Conference
Now here’s a reference
To misquote the Stranglers
No more wranglers
On Sunday anymore
Just Saturday for a while
With considerable style
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