Empty streets were Villa Park,
Highbury, or The Den.
When we first got this football lark
Beside the river Thames.
Games were all we lived for
Anywhere we’d play
Till our mam’s would shout “Oi You! Indoors,
Now! Or I’ll lock that ball away”.
When the old man left the boozer
And staggered down our street
As a bellowing Evening Newsboy
Told us, if Chelsea had got beat.
We’d worship Frankie Blunstone,
Tambling and The Cat
Barry Bridges and Bert Murray
It was lovely, thinking back.
We’d heard about Bert Trautmann
Gil Merrick, Frankie Swift
The old man spoke of Duncan Edwards
“That young boy, sure had the gift”.
Watching Bobby Robson
Tosh Chamberlaine, Johnny Haynes
From that mob at Craven Cottage
I’ve an awful memory for names!
Frantic games in football cages
When the streets were out of bounds
In Cup replays that took ages
It would seem we played for hours.
Five a sides with tennis balls
Half inched from the toff’s
Crab football played in dining halls
Where school lunches were scoffed.
Frightening cinders pitches
With stones and broken glass
Thinking that the rich kids
Were so blessed to play on grass.
Clapham Common, Battersea Park
Our Wemberly, or The Bridge
In finals where we were the stars
As street football playing kids!