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I made my debut at eighteen
In nineteen sixty-three.
When four Moptops from Merseyside
Were singing Please Please Me.
Pop songs were heard on vinyl then,
And not on MP3.
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I got my first goal at Maine Road
‘Gainst Manchester Citee.
The flair and talent that I showed
Were plain for all to see.
(For all those packed inside that Ground –
There was no Sky Tee Vee…)
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Young girls asked for my autograph,
And went weak at the knees.
Then stuck my photo on their wall,
Beside Paul McCartnee.
While lads throughout the land wished they
Could all wear my Jersee.
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You’ll find it no surprise that I
Was capped for my Countree.
Or travelled down to old Buck House
To take tea with the Queen.
D’you know what she bestowed on me?
You guessed – an M.B.E.
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But cruel Fate cut short my career
Through crippling injuree.
A hatchet-man lunged at my legs
And knackered my left knee.
So sadly I hung up my boots
(While those four lads from Liverpool
Were high on L.S.D.)
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An age ago all that now seems –
The Twentieth Centuree.
There’s new stars in the spotlight now –
Ronaldo, Wayne Roonee…
And when folk pass me in the street,
They don’t fall to their knees.
No chance that they will nod or greet,
They’re wondering: “Hey, who’s he?”
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So here I sit with slippered feet
On my threadbare settee.
A scratched LP (I hate CDs)
Is playing Let it Be.
While I shower scorn on fame-struck fans
Of sieve-like memoree.
I curse all fickle football fans
Who’ve quite forgotten me …