We’re Crap, And We Know We Are
What is it about the English
And our football fatal flaw ?
We treat the pitch like a nine-to-five,
Content with a goalless draw.
‘No-one likes a show-off’ we say,
As the donkeys bray and bore –
Then we lose to a team with speed and style
Once more.
So sing it on the terraces,
As we play for the penalties –
In-ger-land are slow and bland
Cos we’ve got the British disease.
Our league may be exciting,
But that’s thanks to the immigrants –
So we take the fans for granted
As we play in our underpants.
‘It’s the winning that counts’ we tell ourselves
As we plod through the next campaign –
Then we lose to the quarter finals,
Yet again.
So sing it on the terraces,
As we’re brought back down to size –
In-ger-land are getting canned
Cos we’ve eaten all the pies.
There’s a Brexit metaphor to be had here, I’m sure, but the truth is that we were just as unimpressive while we were still in.
Rhyming Couplets 