The Liverpool supporters
Singing
from the cop
Urge
me to join them
On
and on they never stop
“You’ll
never walk alone”
Is
the anthem they sing
It’s
gone on for years now
With
that tinny scouser ring
Well,
I’m from Blackpool
And
of more sober tone
Which
is why I say to the cop
That
I’d rather walk alone
The song of the supporter’s pack
“Who’s
the wanker in the black?”
That
was the chant
But
no longer, for you can’t
Disrespect
the referee
For
a man such as he
Is
to be protected
And
respected
And
no one must speak ill
Even
if forced to swallow the bitter pill
Of
un-just officialdom
Which
is NOT seldom
No
manager may mutter
Query
or utter
Discontent
in the ref’s direction
For
to commit such an indiscretion
Will
see them had up before the FA
Where
a fine must be paid
And
be sentenced to a touchline ban
For
insulting the black clad man
But
why should they be protected
And
forcibly respected
They
are a professional group
And
well salaried to boot
They
no longer officiate
In
their amateur state
Low-tech
refereeing
A
hobby to be fitted in
Attending
the scene of their crime
In
their spare time
With
no remuneration
For
their dedication
No
“bread and honey”
Just
enough for petrol money
If
lucky luncheon vouchers maybe
For
a cup of tea
And
a pie to warm the soul
Before
disallowing a perfectly good goal
It
was much better then
With
those amateur men
And
be able to say to their faces
That
they were bloody disgraces
I
don’t think we have progressed
Now
we have professional refs
They
now think themselves important
And
no longer want to hear the chant
But
I still want to sing with the pack
“Who’s
the wanker in the black?”
Robin and Richard were two pretty men,
They laid in bed till the clock struck ten;
Then up starts Robin and looks at the sky:
"Oh, sod it Richard, the sun's very high!
Stop sniggering and pull on your knickers
We’re late for training at Twickers”
I met a guy from the ramblers today
I
think his name was John
He
was a harmless bloke I suppose
Do you know who invented the crossword?
I
can't remember his name for the life of me
It’s
on the tip of my tongue just out of reach
It’s
W something N something E
There are many differences
Between
Rugby and football
Rules,
number of players, ball shape
Goal
posts, pitch markings, duration
And
so on and so forth
It
was once said that football
Is
a gentleman’s game played by ruffian’s
And
Rugby a ruffian’s game played by gentleman
Not
quite as true as it used to be
But
still not far off the mark
I’ve
even heard it said
That
Football is played by children
And
Rugby by grownups
But
for me the difference
Can
best be defined in this way
A
Footballer spends 90 minutes
Pretending
to be injured
While
a Rugby player spends 80 minutes
Pretending
that he is not
I long since came to terms
Since
John Barnes set the trend
With
footballers wearing gloves
To
keep their little pandies warm
I
am less understanding
Of
players taking to the field
With
tights beneath their shorts
But
it seems I must accept it
But
the line has to be drawn somewhere
And
that line was crossed
This
very weekend
I
was shocked beyond belief
To
see a player, take to the field of play
Wearing
a muffler about his neck
Shaven headed barbarians
And
tattooed savages
Strut
with preening peacocks
In
performing their pantomime
While
their vengeful tribes
With
banners held high
Chant
their rhythmic cacophony
Faces
distorted with hate
On
the field of honour
They
grapple and kick
They
push and pull
They
dive and roll
Assault
and assail
Connive
and cheat
In
unforgiving onslaughts
They
perform for baying hordes
A
vile and brutal spectacle
Always
referred to
As
the beautiful game
There was a craze not long ago
A
kind of country pursuit
A
sport known as cow tipping
Perpetrated by callow youth
Now
due to the recession
There
is a new craze to report
A
rural epidemic, fly tipping
It’s
popular but not much of a sport
As a footballer I must confess
My skills locker is
somewhat bereft
I am a naturally two
footed player
But unfortunately, both
of them are left
