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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required 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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