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In seventy-one at Wembley, I stood down near the goal
I couldn’t really see to the other end, as the ball began to roll
Though five foot three from toe to crown, when we win, I’m ten foot high
But when Arsenal went that one goal down, I felt that I could cry.
My little boy was there with me; he’d looked forward for weeks
A little boy of nine years old, the tears ran down his cheeks
“Don’t cry son,” an old gooner croaked; “ It’s far from over yet.”
“Just watch Charlie”; my voice was choked. “He’ll score for us, you bet.”
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To this day, I still don’t know if George Graham got a touch
Or if Kelly got the equaliser, but it doesn’t matter much.
No longer trying not to cry, I picked up my little son
Both of us were ten foot high, as if we’d already won.
And win we did, as history shows, my prophesy came true
And Charlie George, as everyone knows, scored one out of the blue.
He threw himself upon the ground, in utter jubilation
And received from players and fans alike their total adulation.
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We laughed and cried, we hugged and cheered, he felt as light as a feather
Like Charlie and the Arsenal team, we all rejoiced together
When I returned to work next day, I didn’t feel part of the crowd
I felt, what is it they say, like I was on a cloud
I’ve had many ups and downs since then; my son is now a man
He’s done more exciting things in life than I ever could, or can
But I think that when he is old like me, and looks back upon his years
He will still remember most of all, the day we shared our tears.