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Spread-eagled on a threadbare sofa
A rented telly for The World Cup games
As a polite BBC voice informed us,“Now it’s over
To David Coleman”, word perfect in every foreigner’s name.
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I’d dream of Viva Revolution, Viva Republic
Pancho Villa, hombres, lawlessness, guns
Bravely thinking: “Manana Mama” whilst looking cherubic
On my being told” Get them feet down off that sofa at once!”
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Yeah there’s something about a national anthem,
Eleven proud loyalists loudly giving it their all,
Sends my mind off in a tangent of musical abandonment
Although me eyes are firmly fixed on “The Football”.