Hey bugger me, now where's mi clogs?. Sunday cap and Sunday togs. Come along and pare some shins. Winner often wins. Hey ho! And away we go!. Kick your opponent's shins, oh!.
There's pedal bikes and motor bikes. And now they're riding mountain bikes. Up and down and out of town. Over, under, through, around. I ride my little bicycle, I ride it to the top.
Remember Mexico '86?. "Dirty" Diego, the Saint and Greaves. All covering up the cracks of an economic crisis. What the cameras don't show the viewers won't notice.
I saw one legged skiers, agile and graceful. In and out the slalom, rushing ever downwards. And there weren't any losers. I saw marathon runners, strong and determined.
There's entertainment. There's politics. There's popular culture. There's dialectics. But never the twain shall meet. Never the twain shall meet. This is a myth, propagated by the bourgeois wordsmiths.
That golden era. That golden era. David Bedford, Georgie Best. Olga Korbutt, Eddie Mercx. Tony Jacklin, Jochen Rindt. Ille Nastase, Rachael Flint. Gary Player, Clive Lloyd.
Cut and clipped to make you sleek. Whipped and brushed from stall to track. Laden down with heavy pack. Or carrying rider on your back. And finally your neck is broken.
Knight to Bishop 4. Next move in the cold war. In the Spassky/Fischer battle. To see who rules the castle. Spassky takes Hungary (and Czecks). Fischer takes Grenada.
How come all the best athletes. Had the poshest kits. While the slow, fat, thin, and spotty ones. Had shorts that didn't fit?. They never lingered in the changing rooms.
The little leagues, the spare-time sports. Works teams and pub teams. Sandwiches for the darts competition. Oranges at half time. Spare time tennis, scrambling on fields.
It's all about getting the ball in the back of the net, Brian. I'm as sick as a parrot, Brian. I'm over the moon, Brian. Well, I think the lads were well worth a point, Brian.
From the heights of Montezuma to the shores of Sicily. From the rainplains of Africa. Across the shining sea. From the East to the West. From the rainforests to the dustbowls.
She's a slip of a girl to be out of school. She's a product of apartheid. She won her spurs under minority rule. She's a product of apartheid. Afrikaners run the best.
Closed circuit TV and hooligans. The guinea pigs are the football fans. Using football's bad reputation. For crowd control operations. Seizing on any chance.
City, city, city. City, Man city. Living in the city. Manchester city. Colin Bell, Frannie Lee. Neil Young, Mike Summerbee. Rodney Marsh, Alan Oakes. Tommy Booth and Tony Book.
Matador impaled upon the horns of the beast. Tossed and flipped, a sequined rag-doll. This frightened, tortured, mutilated animal. Has got it's own back once and for all.
54 inch around the chest. Stitching ripping on his vest. Biceps, triceps, ready to flex. A gold medallion around his neck. He looks more like the Michelin Man.
Oh, where are you now George?. Now that wingers have been laid to rest. And shirts have adverts across their breast. And it's all about who's the richest.
All the runners running downhill. All the throwers with strap-on muscles. Gold, silver, and bronze. To the designer-drugs and anabolic steroids. Random testing doesn't exist.
Business bought the athletes out. With gold medals and role models. Drugs and media and national pride. Why join in when you can watch it on TV?. So out of the stadiums!.