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If you earn your living selling blow-up Spitfires,
If you own a retail outlet or a pub,
And were counting on a football feelgood factor
To set your till a-ringing for a month,
Then most likely you’ll be feeling somewhat cheesed off
At England’s early exit from the Cup.
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If you coughed up thirty grand to record a stirring song
That you hoped would be the soundtrack to an England Siegeszug,
Now you’re slightly out of pocket, it’s no wonder if you gripe
That Rooney and his team-mates failed to live up to the hype.
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But me? Oh, I’m alright, can afford a little gloat, ‘cos:
I don’t flog blow-up fighter-planes or meat for barbecues.
My income doesn’t fluctuate in step with sales of booze.
I wrote no World Cup Anthem, and my poems are for fun,
My aim ain’t to make money, no, I only write for love.