Sixty Years of Maybe

[Verse 1] The blossom is out and the weather is mild We’ve beaten some island, we’re going stone wild By April we’ve carved out our name on the base Ignoring the patterns of chronic disgrace We’re kings of the friendlies, the masters of hype Before the first hamstring has started to gripe We’ve sorted the parade and the open-top bus While the rest of the planet is laughing at us. [Chorus] Oh, we’re booked for the final by mid-afternoon But we’re destined to crash like a leaden balloon Twelve yards of distance, a goal ten feet wide Yet we’re blasting the leather to the North Sea side! Yeah, we’re masters of dreaming, we’re lords of the brag Until someone bottles it and drops the flag. [Verse 2] Sir Gareth is rocking the polyester chic But the sub at the eighty-ninth minute is weak Six decades of dusty old black-and-white clips Since glory last tasted our grandfathers' lips Now we’re sobbing in car parks, we’re drenched in warm ale As another bold venture is destined to fail We’ll blame it on fatigue or a patch of bad grass As we exit the bracket with zero real class. [Bridge] One step, two step, look at the sod Praying for mercy to a penalty god The keeper didn't move, you just hit the moon See you in four years for the same bloody tune! [Outro] Next time for sure! (Probably not though) Same time next cycle? Pass us a pint. We’re mental, we know we are!