Nine Cups of Nothing

[Verse 1] Check the passport, check the flight, it’s the same old story, A thousand bagpipes screaming for a shred of glory. Vinícius Júnior had the defense on a leash by the seventh, By forty-five plus three, he’d sent your backline to heaven. The half-time pies weren’t even warm, the crust was still freezing, While Vini bagged a brace just because he found it pleasing. You brought the kilts and the noise but forgot to bring a striker, A ninety-minute stroll for a Brazilian mountain hiker. [Chorus] NINE! Count ‘em up, nine times you’ve made the trip, And nine times the luggage is the only thing you grip. From the invention of the pipes to the modern-day stage, You’re the only ones stuck on the very first page. Zero knockouts, zero hope, just a suitcase full of tears, Scotland’s grand tradition for a hundred wasted years! [Verse 2] Two whole matches, one hundred eighty minutes on the clock, And the opposition keeper’s basically standing like a rock. Zero shots on target—not today, and not the game before, You couldn’t find the net if it was a double garage door. Six minutes of stoppage just to heighten the despair, Watching Neymar treat the pitch like a local county fair. A thirty-yard strike, a training ground flick for the cameras, While the Tartan Army sits there looking absolutely hammered. [Bridge] You’re the record breakers, lads, stand tall and take a bow, The only nation gifted nine chances to show us how— To exit in the groups before the postcards even settle, All that spirit in the stands, but zero on the metal. Neymar’s taking selfies while you’re checking for a flight, Another grand catastrophe on a humid Tuesday night. [Outro] No knockouts. Never. Not once. Nine times invited, nine times the dunce. Put the pipes away, lads, the flight’s at ten, See you in four years to do it all again. Zero shots. Zero goals. Just Scotland.