| We watched the game like we always did
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| We seemed to lose more than we’d win
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| The ref would sweat as we’d blame him
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| And then the fights would start
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| Out where the buses park
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| I dodged a few black eyes
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| Believe me
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| It was good to be alive
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| The tribal path led to the pub
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| Where we debated how we’d won
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| And I’m outside the wayward son
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| And then a glass is smashed
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| Some fella’s on his back
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| And it all kicks off again
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| As ever
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| There’s no one to take the blame
|
| As time goes by I search with vigour
|
| The days we had seemed so much bigger
|
| And everyone would point the finger
|
| So we would do the same
|
| To be mesmerised by the beautiful game
|
| My old man passed on the flame of loss
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| The team we loved just gathered moss
|
| On a rolling stone you wouldn’t toss
|
| But if we win or lose
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| We’re in each other’s shoes
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| With blood upon our shirts
|
| Believe me
|
| You know how that hurts
|
| As time goes by I search with vigour
|
| The days we had seemed so much bigger
|
| And everyone would point the finger
|
| So we would do the same
|
| To be mesmerised by the beautiful game |