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“I’m paying for these” if the team has played well
“What a right load of cobblers” if not
They’ll be down in their cups till ‘last orders’ goes up,
Scoot off home if three points in the pot.
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“Barman a round please and have one yerself”
Means the home side have handsomely won
But a crushing defeat, means I’m nameless this week
By “Eight doubles for me and these chumps”
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Caressing their glasses, the post mortems ask:
“Why was that young keeper picked?
That rampaging left back hell bent on attacking
Should be dropped to the stiffs for next week”.
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“How much are we paying our manager?
What?! We could’ve hired a professional for that”
In matter of weeks what was once the bee’s knees
Is suddenly a money grabbing illegitimate chap.
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Brown ale, mild and bitter, Hovis for tea
A brown leather ball, and long shorts (sic)
“When a player earning a score, was pretty well secure*
Without agents or snide Mr Fixits”
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Suddenly a posh voice interrupts the fans whining
Or the jubilant repetitive singing
When Arsenal nil, Fulham two is revealed
There’s a “Barman this next round is on me
What yer’s having? As I’m getting ’em’ in”!