Vitai Lamparda
There's a deathless passion in Gelsenkirchen –
One to score, and a team to boot out –
Eleven louts, and a crowd berserk in
The hope there won't be a penalty shoot-out.
And it's not for the sake of honour and pain,
That they gather together, these manly mutts –
But to heed the call of the prodigy, Wayne:
“Play rough! play rough! and crush his nuts!”
The faces are painted in white and red,
Red with embarrassment, white with shock;
Lampard should have been left in bed,
And Beckham is off with a nasty knock.
Eriksson's end is almost nigh,
And Eng-a-land's bulging with beer and guts,
But listen to Rooney's rallying cry:
“Play rough! play rough! and crush his nuts!”
These are the words that, every four years,
We dread as we purchase our plasma set,
As every fan thinks of Gazza's tears,
And desperately tries to forget, forget.
Two hours are up. The penalties miss.
The door to the World Cup Final shuts –
But thanks to Wayne, we'll remember this:
“Play rough! play rough! and crush his nuts!”
