Everybody knows their names
That band of bleeding blokes
Sat up in the stands at most home games
Thumbing through the programme,
Whilst clasping doctor’s notes.
It’s so long since they started games
Club shop, don’t hold their shirts
There ain’t point in printing the names
On them, of those, always feigning hurt.
Put ’em’ on a pay per play
Yer injured? Then no cash
Where else in the world today
Would a guvnor, put up with this crap?
Don’t let ’em’ sign an autograph
They might twist a feeble wrist
With another fortnight in Dubai
Working (sic) hard to come back fit.
Always looking tanned and healthy like
Well bored and stinking rich
I wish they’d take a hike or try an excercise bike
And get down to business, like they’re well paid to do
Out on the football pitch!
So a big shout goes out to “The Irons”
For paying this passenger to depart
There’s another three or four of ’em’ there
Working their tickets, who could go as well
Whom East End fans, would happily wish… au revior!