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In pre big game build-ups they’d give you the hump
With their OTT views in the Sketch, Mirror or Sun
Touchline expletives the T.V blanked out
Those sly digs that the ref never knew owt about.
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Gascoigne. A waste and as daft as a brush
What talent when everything clicked
Even in big games still a kid, playing kick and rush
For sheer joy and doing all kinds of tricks.
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Best knocking the ball out of Banksy’s hand
To score in a home international
The smile on his face as he raced to the fans
It’s those sort of blokes our games lacking.
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Bowles who you never knew what he’d do next
As he nutmegged some thug for a laugh
The only certainty was that Stan was fond of a bet
And could lose a months wages at cards.
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These pound signs look ever so downcast
With their mansions and Bentleys and birds
Could it be that they need a few laughs
In their lives, to make light of their make believe world?
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Lord send us some blokes, not these poseur type mopes
Who go totally nuts after scoring.
I’d much rather them, than these boring staid men
Who send me off to zzzz, they’re so boring.