As the curtain rises on another season
I find myself struggling to find any reason
To watch any manner of Premiership football
When I’m unsure its players care for it at all.
My childhood memories may be rose-tinted
When players had passion and were less ludicrously minted
Caring more for supporters and the good of the game
Than inflated egos and absence of shame.
Sick, bloated greed and the morally obscene
Never more apparent than in our own national team.
Overpaid underachievers, with selfish intention
Spoilt brats. Cry babies. Words too rude to mention.
Who will be captain? Who shall we choose?
The list of current candidates is sure to amuse.
And as we assemble England’s so called elite
The absence of role models is impossible to beat.
Should we pick John Terry, brave lion all our own.
So disciplined he couldn’t leave others wives alone.
Or perhaps Rio Ferdinand, a rock in defence
But missed drug test a rather suspicious offence.
While we’re at the back, we could pick Ashley Cole,
But those phone text affairs have taken their toll.
Wayne Rooney’s a legend, if not such a looker,
But his chances are slim now he’s been with that hooker.
Perhaps Steven Gerrard? His shot’s like a bolt.
But he can’t lead a team when he’s charged with assault.
England’s footballers are a low rent sort
And we only know about the ones that got caught…
Cheating chav scum, and if you need persuading
Just watch a match and see sportsmanship fading.
The beautiful game, played with skills still sublime
But increasingly ruined by petulant pantomime.
The diving, the histrionics, the appealing for cards
Touch a hair on their head and they’ll roll for yards.
And in what other sport do you so often see
Such sustained, furious arguments with the referee?
Take a leaf out of cricket or rugby’s good grace
Quite frankly our footballers are a fucking disgrace.
These things leave our fans with raw hopes and fears
But for our arrogant players, it falls on deaf ears.