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When marking your man, you’re advised to mark tight,
To shadow him where he might wander.
Wrap your arms round him in case he takes flight,
Engulf him like some anaconda.
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The Ecuador lads have some lessons to learn,
And ended the much more moroser.
They left too much space for attackers to turn –
Their coach said they should have marked Klose.
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And then the fateful whistle blew.
The two teams took their final bow,
And wiped the sweat from off their brow,
For neither side had made it through.
The Costa Ricans left the pitch
Applauded for their gallant play,
And, as they left the arena, they
Could feel their lips begin to twitch.
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The Poles however were waylaid
By canvassers in pinstripe suits
Who asked them ‘bout their football boots
And where they’d had their shinpads made.
They quizzed them on their fav’rite goals,
And marked the answers on a sheet,
And thanked them when it was complete
For being helpful exit Poles.
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Into the garden, the English trooped proudly,
Chanting and waving and singing out loudly.
As one of the original footballing powers,
They claimed all the bushes, the plants and the flowers.
The sun was so tranquil, the ambience cosy,
And everything there in the garden was rosy.
But suddenly it became chilly and breezy,
Life, they soon learned, wasn’t always that easy.
Running for trees in undignified scrambles,
They found themselves tangled in hawthorn and brambles.
The rain battered down, all the flowers lost their petals,
And up sprang a forest of overgrown nettles.
The manicured lawn became lep’rous and fungal,
As the Garden of Sweden turned into a jungle.
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Tall Thessalonians tell their tiny tots
That this team
Totally transcended the traditional tribal theocracy,
Two traditional tourist treasures.