They are a singing, swinging crowd,
They chant their slogans brash and loud,
They go as far as is allowed,
And, in their daydreams, further still.
They sip champagne and spit their bile,
They chuck their rubbish on a pile,
Yet, when the cameras roll, they smile –
Although a tad against their will.
They smooch and stroke and clap their hands
To music from some hired bands;
Their cuddly public image stands –
They take care that the beans don’t spill.
They’re learning how to play the game,
And think a silly change of name
Wipes clean their heritage of shame –
The thought of them gives some a chill.
Tomorrow is the promised day,
When they will make opponents pay
And stuff all those who block their way.
They gasp, just thinking of the thrill.
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