Clapham Common, Battersea Park
Or Strawberry Hill that time
We were Edwards, Blunstone, Charlton.R,
Yashin prancing along his line.
Our pitches weren’t the lush green fields
Telly showed us in black and white
But pink ashes as bloody scrapes revealed
When we washed them out at night.
Ah the day when we played the choir school,
With ten shirts of the strangest sorts
Whilst our posh opponents (who to be fair were cool)
Had creases ironed in football shorts.
Yet the nuns were really proud of us
When we won them first few games
We were lauded as if we’d won The Cup
Though we rarely tasted fame.
Then that day when you grabbed the jersey
When I couldn’t take the pain no more
In an act of kindness and both mercy
Was fourteen nought the eventual score?
Two pairs of Kick Off Continentals
Priced at thirty nine and six
How we swooned at them, d’you remember
Down at Freeman, Hardy and Willis?
The wonderful seven a side victory
Won from our snowballs chance in hell
When our names went down in local history
As a tale of fame we would love to tell.
Invincible? Yeah we thought we were
As two scruffy kids finally grew up
We often joked how we’d live for ever
Or us maybe winning The Catholic Cup?
So when I lay your ashes to rest in the ground
Yesterday morning prior to noon
It was strange my being there, with you not around
The final whistle came too soon!