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Everyone knows we’re the salt of the earth,
Footballing mad from the thyme of our birth.
From Basil to Bombay, we gather in herds,
And our language is peppered with four-letter words.
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We all know our onions, each one is a sage,
Though the mood can be spicy and tricky to gauge.
We all bay for free kicks, with dill-igent reason,
And count down the days to the start of the season.