Angling is an ancient pastime
And thousands sit with permit paid
Some stand on the riverbank
Some enter the water and wade
Long held traditions are kept
Yet new innovations are made
As modern anglers try to improve
With every kind of newfangled aid
In wartime when my father was young
And when not fighting or on parade
Was forced as he had no rod and line
To go fishing with a hand grenade
FIFA are on a mission
Racism in the game they want to defeat
An admirable ambition indeed
But first they need to stamp out cheats
Its spread from normal quarters
To Thierry Henry who to his disgrace
After a shoulder to the chest
Went down holding his face
Wingless wonders they were named
As world cup winners they are famed
Gordon Banks, played in the goal
For Bobby Moore, the captain’s role
Cohen and Wilson at the back
The Charlton brothers, Bob and Jack
Martin Peters and Alan Ball
Nobby Stiles stood ten feet tall
Roger Hunt scores when he can
And Geoff Hurst the hat trick man
Sir Alf Ramsey teamed them up
And in 66 they won the cup
Don’t buy any Australian wine’s this year
Because since they lost in the World Cup I fear
When we knocked them off their ivory tower
All of their grapes have suddenly gone sour
My dad always used to say that
Rummaging in the garden after all
When overgrown and wild would
Always
turn up an old tennis ball
FIFA are on a mission
Disrespect for refs they want to defeat
An admirable ambition indeed
But first they need to stamp out cheats
Its spread from normal quarters
To Thierry Henry who to his ignominy
handled the ball to keep it in play
A offence done quite deliberately
Which was compounded by his lie,
That it happened accidentally
For Henman fans Andy Murray
Doesn’t
do it for them
And
for his on court aggression
They
criticize him
But
if you remove his aggression
You’re
left with Tim
They sing the homesick blues
“We
miss our families”
These
pampered prima donnas
Living
in 5 star luxury
In
Afghanistan they are home sick
They
miss their families
The
soldiers living in tents
Under
fire from the enemy
They
sing the “we’re bored blues”
“There‘s,
like nothing to do”
Like
a bunch of seven year olds
Not
men of over 22
We
are so bored with these players
And
their incessant whining
Waited
on hand and foot
Living
it up on 5 star dinning
They
sing the “we’re bored blues”
Like
we have any sympathy
Only
having to play once a week
Then
after training they are free
We’re
tired waiting for our heroes
When
eleven strangers appear
Where
are the premiership stars?
Who
play weekly without fear
We
sing the England blues
As
each tournament comes around
When
each and every time
Our
dreams lie tattered on the ground
Well England made it to the final
Though
alas only the refereeing chap
But
like the England team before him
Howard
Webb was really crap
