Voodoo bring me my bow of shining gold,
bring in the arrows of desire!
Bring in the bets, let the signs be told,
brow beat dissent with the Don's ire.
Fortify the power of lucre,
to the pit of ignominy and deceit lure
the bright colts of the game.
For when the pocket is full,
and the roost we rule,
can there be any shame?
I see see and we see see eye
to eye that making money is our right.
I see see do see see bookies on the prowl!
We see see red eye and growl,
shut up or else your projects
we won't bankroll.
I will not cease from all out fight,
the seat of power can't be let out of sight.
The magi devised Strategic Time Out
to earn more dime from TV rights.
Some may bark and others shirk
from shouldering the ***** blame,
the control's still with me, O hark!
You see the club is lame.
Blake, did those giants in ancient times
Stride with honour in the beautiful game?
Did the masters shed blood in the country's name
to let it be sullied today with ugly grime?
The hollow shirts mouthed clichés inane
and the ties sold the game for thirty dimes.
The corridors shake, the mighty quake,
the vassals at last revolt,
what would be left in the wake
are the ashes of the old.
Can it then rise, like the phoenix bird
and make its flight to behold,
or be buried in some other muck
a sordid saga retold!
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 1:17 PM UTC
Voodoo bring me my bow of shining gold,
bring in the arrows of desire!
Bring in the bets, let the signs be told,
brow beat dissent with the Don's ire.
Fortify the power of lucre,
to the pit of ignominy and deceit lure
the bright colts of the game.
For when the pocket is full,
and the roost we rule,
can there be any shame?
I see see and we see see eye
to eye that making money is our right.
I see see do see see bookies on the prowl!
We see see red eye and growl,
shut up or else your projects
we won't bankroll.
I will not cease from all out fight,
the seat of power can't be let out of sight.
The magi devised Strategic Time Out
to earn more dime from TV rights.
Some may bark and others shirk
from shouldering the ***** blame,
the control's still with me, O hark!
You see the club is lame.
Blake, did those giants in ancient times
Stride with honour in the beautiful game?
Did the masters shed blood in the country's name
to let it be sullied today with ugly grime?
The hollow shirts mouthed clichés inane
and the ties sold the game for thirty dimes.
The corridors shake, the mighty quake,
the vassals at last revolt,
what would be left in the wake
are the ashes of the old.
Can it then rise, like the phoenix bird
and make its flight to behold,
or be buried in some other muck
a sordid saga retold!
Notes (optional)
