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On some English grass
On a piece of land forever England
Warriors of the realm
Take holy orders, on their Fathers grave
To defend the honour of their local pub
For this is the noble art of Sunday league Football

The crowds bay for blood
Shouts of foul and blind as a bat
The decision absurd
The referee a drunkard
Shouts of bar steward,
And your mothers questionable character
Cleaned up for posterity

The game goes on
Frank, the winger another yellow card
Another fine, I fear he will be barred

Groans for Bill a night watchman by trade
I think he’s a blade (Sheffield United supporter)
But not a very good keeper I’m afraid

Then there’s the striker
Super king Jack, 40 a day and a cough to match
Will need a penalty to score in this match

What about ken, a beer belly full back,
Rarely runs for fear of a heart attack
And slugger the centre half
Likes to break legs,
And still the only guy to sup a half a keg

Smooth talking tommy pulls birds on the six yard line
Greased black hair, and knobbly knees to match
Still Skill is not this team’s forte, for we are Britain’s

Taking part is our religion
Lost another game two nil
But won three two at fighting, brill

Bottom of the league
Fines galore
First Aid in the pub
A good drink after
Enemies in the field, but forever friends in laughter.
That’s Sunday football league

Home to the wife
And Sunday dinner, roast beef and Yorkshire pud 
Another bottle of bud
Feet up, settee calls
Dreams of Wembley, and Sheffield Wednesday
Not a bad life for this Yorkshire clan
Here in Sheffield where football began.

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