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The sky was gray as usual when the mob began to roar.
The little pawns had arrived at the stadiums tribal door.
There heads were high like gladiators with roses at there feet.
The taste of blood and victory in a hundred thousand seats.
The players seemed nervous as they walked onto the field.
Cause for every fine play, a bad one would drop there shields.
Be hit with Molotov cocktails, smoke bombs, rocks, and beer.
Be branded like some traitor, a black sheep among their peers.
Hey ref you're a bastard. Your mother is a whore.
Your eyes are in your ass and your brains are on the floor.
This sporting we take seriously. More a taking then our lives.
Better watch your back, I'm telling you bloke, don't mess with the soccer tribe.
A skinhead blows some snots in some Paddy's beer,
So he hands him a fist of change and knocks him on his rear.
The game is on the field. The game is in the stands.
Havoc has no boundary and competition no friends.
When the match is finally over, someone has to lose.
The winner takes the trophy. The goat must pay his dues.
Be maimed, killed, though he gave it all.
It seems a bit too much for kicking a little white ball.
Hey ref you're a bastard. Your mother is a whore.
Your eyes are in your ass and your brains are on the floor.
This sporting we take seriously. More a taking then our lives.
Better watch your back, I'm telling you bloke, don't mess with the soccer tribe. |
