An English sunday morning at half past ten
a rain-soaked battlefield holds 22 men
they stand, shivering and cold, ready for war
adrenaline pumping, waiting to settle the score
mounting tension snaps as the whistle blows
hell is unleashed, the nervous feeling goes.
A subdued game until the first kick goes in
then the bloods up, let the battle begin
there's bruises and blood and words thrown like daggers
being studded on a cold morning really fucking paggers!
but its all worth it, to see the ball hit the net
if you were in pain before, you tend to forget
Half time comes and the men leave the field
the generals motivating words will leave them healed
he offers them advice, on how best to win
some don't listen, but others take it in
this doesn't matter, we all have our own ways
and there's determination carved into every face.
As the game goes on bodies start to tire
but good team spirit can re-kindle the fire
you've been through it all with these reliable men
and win, lose or draw you'll go through it again
the final whistle goes and all hands are shook
apart from that number 7's, he's a right fuck!
An English sunday morning at half past 10
in 2 hours time we'll be saying, "we lost again"
but we don't care because........
an English sunday evening at half past ten
had 3 in the nags and ready for battle again.
