F***ball

Everyone's leaving the office
I can't even be arsed to turn 'round
To watch men on TV
With names I don't know
Filing into the ground

They clutch the hands of small children
There's an endless supply, so it seems
Then they boot about
A white bag of air
At their feet, a nation's dreams

Except mine, could I say, I'm not bothered
I don't care if we win or we lose
I only know Becks
And that monkey
Who hurt his foot because of his shoes

I'm told I should fancy Steve Gerrard
Is he the one who has OCD?
What is so sexy
About washing your hands
Obsessive compulsively?

The last thing I want, if I'm honest
Is to be at one with the nation
They're all ghastly
With big wobbly tummies
Perhaps I'll support the Croatians

I can't take another four weeks
Of pissed-up twats breaking glasses
Wrapping their fat forms
In flags
And exposing their pimply arses

I got Germany and Spain in the sweepstake
If they win I'll get 34 quid
If England
Manage to win it
I'll wish that they never did

So come on then England and lose
For God's sake, don't string it out
No one wants to see
You crying
As you f*ck up the penalty shoot-out.