I’m very over-rated,
though I act so cool and sure,
I was told when I first started,
that I played like Bobby Moore.
I don’t believe in loyalty,
or contracts I have signed,
and with the money men of Chelsea,
on occasions I have dined.
If you think my name is Ashley,
then you’ve gone astray,
no, I was raised in Peckham,
down Sarf London way.
I started out in football,
with a team from the East End,
got done for drink and driving,
after crashing on a bend.
I next got into trouble,
on my Cy-priot vacation,
and my team they finally sold me,
out of financial desperation.
I joined a club in Yorkshire,
I was thrilled to bits to go,
cos although they were in ruins,
they were paying awesome dough.
Then from across the Pennines,
a record bid came in,
and I jumped at the chance to transfer,
and put more readies in my bin.
Everything was rosy,
I was arrogant as can be,
but a drug tester showed up unannounced,
and asked me to take a pee.
I called up my neurologist,
and confessed my substance use,
hoping he’d use his expertise,
to prepare a good excuse.
” Drink plenty of club soda,
and take an antitoxin shot,
and if they ask you about the test,
tell them that, you just forgot.”
But no one bought my story,
the F.A. hung me out to dry,
and the six months ban seemed very harsh,
just because I told a lie.
My club they stuck behind me,
by my manager I was backed,
they even made me offers,
of extending my contract.
I repaid my coaches loyalty,
by seeking clubs elsewhere,
by hanging out in disco’s,
and going on the tear.
I mean Eighty thousand quid a week,
might seem a lot to some,
but a sports career is short-lived,
and do you know the price of rum?
They said that I was greedy,
and that I’m partial to the hash,
but all that I was looking for,
was a little extra cash.
The fans they’ve turned against me,
saying all I want is dosh,
but they don’t have to buy designer clothes,
or eat in restaurants that are posh.
They made me extend my contract,
and told me not to be a moaner,
but how I wished that when I signed,
it had been Madrid or Barcelona.
I missed the England, U.S tour,
I told them I was stressed,
meanwhile at a Stockholm party,
I got punched out by a guest.
I then returned to London,
and raised almighty hell,
and got into more trouble,
by wrecking an hotel.
I mean, I could earn as much, I know,
down in Peckham with the dealers,
but knowing my bad luck,
I’d get arrested by the Peelers.
I’d get caught in possession ,
like I do out on the pitch,
so I think I’ll stick to football,
in order to get rich.
So to all you poem readers,
who haven’t figured my name still,
I’ll give you one last clue,
my name’s a city in Brazil.