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When an oiligarch with more roubles than sense
Instructs Essien who speaks a smidgin of English and French
Via Sheva as transalater, but much more of that later
Cos right now, none of this makes any sense.
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How can a Russian bloke manage our team
Why did he let the other manager leave?
It’s true we were boring, and the fans took to snoring
At some of our performances out there on the green.
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Heads have rolled and the rumours are rife
A dressing room lost is one loaded with strife
As per usual us punters are the one’s who’ll suffer
Ridicule from workmates in our everyday lives.
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Did we hire some top class mob to do our PR
Or some big eejit to just throw more fat on the fire
To most working class blokes we’re becoming a joke
And that friends is what’s causing this ire.
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When Roman stinking rich has left London
And the mega shallow stars are left wondering
“Who’ll pay me this kind of dough? Not too many I know”
Who’ll be there to cheer us on as we’re floundering?
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Fans, punters, us faithfull, our crowd
Through times that are painfull we still sing out loud
We were there at the bottom, we were there at the top
This ain’t no whimsical notion, we’ll be there if we drop!