Soggy semi-circles of St George.
We flew the flag in stadia across the grand divide,Though we had left their trading club to make our way alone.
Style and skill and elegance we willed them to provide
And make their way towards the final zone.
So, this new youth of England fought strong and hard and lean
And leading them was Southgate, in his waistcoat and his tie.
They came so close to victory, and all that cup would mean,
And so the cross of George can still fly high.
You see George was not a British knight, with pallid, pink, pale skin
And his saviour, who was beaten up and strung up on a cross,
Was neither white nor European, had ‘Juden’ in his skin
Yet never cursed the Romans for his loss.
But those bold boys who missed their shot in that final testing time
Have the colour of their skin besmirched on society’s stark forge.
And our putrid, plump prime-minister, the master of gross grime,
Shows soggy semi-circles of St. George.
