A Super league.

A Super league.

We are only equal

When we are dead

The worms don’t play

Favourites

Flies will have a blowout

On any meal

It is their birthright

Too many maggots

Enjoy the fruits

Of other people's labour

The fat of the land

Creamed from the top

Before homogenization

Ninety-nine percent

Lose out

Every time

Tea is served

In bone china cups

From the orient

Which is not an acceptable

Term

Unless you come from Leyton

Do the bourgeois still

Think football is for the people

When they sit inside their boxes

Drinking chamfers

From Fortnum’s

Are stylised cloth caps

Thrown high

Up in the sky

When the goal goes in

Just like in the old days

In black and white

When working people

Knew their place

In the hierarchy

Was to bury their dead

Not to get ahead

Of themselves

And expect real change

Out of a tightwad

With too many fingers

Tucked inside

Too many porkie pies.