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They were honest and raw, no egos or riches;
Sublime skills on brown, mud soaked pitches;
No diving, no spitting, no peacock parade,
Just working class men plying their trade.
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No tiaras or tantrums, no million pound fees,
Working a living with mud stained knees;
No time wasting antics, a game of two halves,
And true loyal fans, all waving their scarves.
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Anfield, St. Andrews, Belle Vue and The Shay,
Three generations watching them play.
In all parts of England, from the South to the North,
Fans turned up in their millions to watch them go forth.
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The sixties were special, a working man’s sport,
Where hardly a game ended nought nought;
Just excitement and noise, with fans on a crest,
Those were the days, and simply the best.