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The squads all went out shopping one fine morning,
And marched into a large department shop,
The lads from Ecuador admired an awning,
And bought some drapes with 48 inch drop.
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The Portuguese bought doilies for their lockers,
The lads from Togo bought Belisha beacons,
The Poles bought several heavy duty knockers,
But it was curtains for the Costa Ricans.
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I am very well aware
That it’s the height of immaturity,
I know we should have moved on long ago.
I think we all despair
Sometimes at our own immaturity
Towards the ancient, once-oppressive foe.
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Oh yes, they are our neighbours,
We should view the Brits with parity,
Different, yet more or less the same
But we snigger at their labours
And react with great hilarity
Whenever they are truly off their game.
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Our mocking, waspish humour
Just reflects our own banality.
What would we say if they mocked our affairs?
And it isn’t just a rumour
That our maudlin nationality
Is every bit as odious as theirs.
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It isn’t to our credit
That we lack such generosity,
When seeing them in trouble ‘gainst the sprats.
And I’m not the first who said it,
But reacting with ferocity
Would hardly qualify as cool for cats.
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But we loved to see them wriggling,
All frustrated at adversity,
For over eighty minutes of the game.
I bet they heard us giggling
With an uncontrolled perversity,
Before their lanky striker quenched the flame.
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Lungberg and Mellberg have kissed and made up,
All for the sake of the FIFA World Cup.
It isn’t a thought that springs easy to mind
Lungberg and Mellberg, contrite and entwined.
In fact, with the two of them fearsome and hairy
The image is patently fright’ningly scary.
It isn’t a vision to set the pulse racing,
Lungberg and Mellberg, overtly embracing.