The Ballad of Moyes

Once there was a fire
When the Mighty Hairdryer
Had the dream to aspire
For more

Yea once was a brute
And a low-flying boot
And each man would shoot
And score

Once, twas fantastic,
And if things got drastic
Then time grew elastic
For you

And last-minute winners
'Gainst right old dog's dinners
Turned groaners to grinners,
Woo-Hoo!

Yea the devils made merry
Opponents they'd bury
(Like that slipshod John Terry):
The worst!

Ruud, Ronnie and Scholes
Scored all sorts of goals
But now, mate, the roles
Are reversed.

The Great Govan God
(Or Puce-Faced Old Sod)
Did summat quite odd -
He left

But before he could go
He left all in the know
That they should not look quite so
Bereft

But there in his wake
Stood a pasty young rake
Who would certainly make
Them feel bleak.

Said he to his boys:
"Look! It's David Moyes!
Make some real fuckin' noise!"
(Not a squeak).

Not a red-shirt called out
How the Rooney did pout:
"Well he's won fuckin' nowt"
And 'twas true.

Said Robin Van Persie
"He did well by the Mersey
But he's just isn't Fergie"
Boo-hoo!

Of course time, it will tell
But it didn't start well
Did nae buy, did nae sell
What's he doing?

And the Theatre of Dreams
Fell apart at the seams
'Mongst the clamour of screams
And of booing.

Somewhere up in the stand
Poor old Moyesy is scanned
And the veteran's hand
Becomes fist

And the truth is revealed
As defence and midfield
All too easily yield:
Here's a list.

Vidic is finished
Evra's diminished
And Rio looks pished
When he's picked

Welbeck's a no-no
Kagawa's so-so
And young Chicarito
Is licked.

They wail: "We're in tatters!"
"Even Sunderland twat us!"
"Twenty-seven Juan Matas
Can't save us!"

"There's no talent, no class,
Not a player who can pass!"
"And Fellaini's an arse -
We need favours!"

"So Fergie don't sit
In the prawn sandwich bit
Like you don't give a shit -
While you're here...

"We need a revival
It's just bloody vital
This lot won the title
Last year!"

"You'll say what do we know?
But over some vino
Ask Jose Mourinho
He's fine!"

But they watch the club fall
And they bark and they bawl
And real fuckwits call
Nine nine nine.

(Meanwhile, cross the nation
Folk sing in elation
For the Dark Domination
Is done

Yes we thank God for Moyes
And the sheer lack of poise
Of his witless young boys.
Oh what fun!)