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It’s the sport of kings and paupers,
By participants and gawpers
Of the finest sporting taste.
Vapid viscounts and their minions
From West Cape to Wythenshawe
Voice their voluble opinions
On the game that we adore.
Leave a comment on verse 2 0
You don’t need an education
Or a Roller in the mews
To engage in conversation
‘Bout the latest football news.
And you don’t need ragged trousers
Or own whippets by the score
To debate what one espouses
‘Bout the game that we adore.
Leave a comment on verse 3 0
On the playing fields of Harrow,
In the flats of Muswell Hill,
Football cupid shoots his arrow
And it strikes home where it will.
It skirts not the scruffy urchin,
Nor the fans of Miss Dior,
In the trees the marksman’s perchin’
With his arrow to the fore.
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It breaks down the social bound’ries,
It sucks in the class divide.
From great palaces and foundries,
People worship side by side.
No such thing as social status
When the crowd lets out a roar,
Bank accounts are small potatoes
In the game that we adore.