The golden generation, which had the Midas touch,
Has reached its final autumn (it hadn't one last spring).
What did it have? What drove it onwards? Candidly, not much:
A swollen reputation and a wild excess of bling.
The hopping mad electorate dismissed it, as is lawful.
But now we turn to football, and the story's far more awful.
Suppose you ran a circus, put a tent up on the downs,
And bargained on an audience to marvel at trapeze,
And found you'd only booked yourself a pack of clueless clowns,
Content at best to lounge about and shoot some useless breeze:
Perhaps you'd have an inkling of the famous four-year farce
When English boots are out of touch, whatever comes to pass.
Excuses why so uninspired: tired, legs like Jell-O;
Weren't allowed a second beer; weren't told they'd made the team;
Weren't allowed a crabby gab with Fabio Capello;
Hadn't puff enough, and hence they ran right out of steam;
Dropped the ball by accident; had one good goal denied;
Would have scored a hatful (if the shots had not gone wide).
The cream of England struts its stuff upon the worldwide stage,
And every single one of them's at least as rich as Croesus.
Their salary is twenty times the average English wage –
But ask them for some vim and you will watch them go to pieces.
They preen and pout, each feathered like a shock-head cockatoo.
The government are rubbish. Oh, and so's the soccer too.