Bottom of La Liga
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The finest stadium I’ve ever seen
Is the Estadio Benito Villamarín.
It belongs to Betis, in the south of Spain,
Last week I boarded an Easyjet plane
And visited the orange trees in the town of Seville
If I close my eyes I’m wandering there still
Where the doves that flutter in the clear blue sky
Alight on the heads of the passers-by
Where the languid lemon tree inclines
Its velvet branches toward the pines
And Rupert Brooke in his Moorish tower
Sees an unofficial jasmine flower.
But wait! What’s all this poetic stuff?
Football is serious. Football is tough.
Maybe Rupert Brooke would rather be
In Manchester. Well I’m glad I’m not
In Manchester, because here it’s hot
The stadium’s built at the end of a park
You can hear the nightingale (and the lark)
An ideal place to be creative and free
From those noisy neighbours Sevilla FC
There’s just one problem I must confess
This Betis club is a bit of a mess
Though their ground would inspire a Brooke or a Keats
Their La Liga record is a string of defeats
The most poetic club in the Spanish nation
Is staring at the spectre of relegation
It’s time for these losing ways to stop
It’s time to avoid that fateful drop
With your quaint old name and your quaint old stand
You can still be footballing force in the land
Now turn the corner! Save the day!
O Real Betis Balompié.
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