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The old place looks the same
Though its had a lick of paint
Faces round the dug-out sure seem young
We’ve a league of nationals out on loan
Won’t ever play at what is home
Unless the injured list goes over forty one.
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Does he still belong to us,
Cup tied, or have we sussed
He’ll never quite make the grade to be a pro?
The millions we have spent
On numerous boys who won’t make men
Is a quite disgusting waste of laundered dough.
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Though we ain’t alone in this
Ruining various fledgling young careers
These also ran’s are doing pretty well
What with soiree’s out to Spain
Where a better game than ours is played
Maybe our strikers should be parked there till they gel!
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Or say a month at Boreham Wood
Where I hear the competitions good
To lead the line and hit the net on cue
Would see our toothless pair up front
Scream out “This pitch is a just dump”
S’right, and a fitting place for rubbish such as you two!
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Maybe a month out in the cold (sic)
Just off The Old Kent Road
Where fans are known to call it as it is
Might see two hundred grand a week
Come back to us a trifle meek,
Somewhat enlightened, and then chomping at the bit?
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Me. I’d take ’em’ over to Hackney Marsh
Where touch-line plaudits can seem harsh
On a shirker with the aim to work his ticket
You see us punters can’t be ignored
And won’t be slow in coming forward
Toward a joker we’re convinced is trying to wing it!