3 lions on a shirt – a symbol of the monarchy,
Lining up behind the flag that keeps us all in poverty,
22 class traitors running round a pitch,
All being cheered on by working class fuck-wits.
I know it cos I’ve been there just like you,
With the season ticket and the club shirt too,
Another consumer trapped inside,
The loyalty that you’ve been denied,
The board are rich scum – players worse,
Symbolic violence – how your club works,
They wear a veil of philanthropy,
But when it slips that’s when you see.
They penned us in and watched us die,
Pretend to care – it’s all a lie,
Used Hillsborough deaths to steal the game,
Now each stadium is the same,
Anonymous except for its sponsor,
Games you can’t afford a seat for,
Shirts made in far eastern sweatshops,
Buy the T-shirt, buy the sweat-top,
Keep on cheering but deep down you know,
You may as well be supporting Tescos!
In Bentleys and designer clothes,
Players flaunt their wealth in front of your nose,
Just for kicking a ball about,
Arrogant scum they have no doubt,
That we should worship them like gods,
If they weren’t there would it make any odds?
Ushered straight through the nightclub doors,
Where they treat our sisters worse than whores,
“Don’t you know who I am?” Is what they ask,
These traitors to the working class,
Yes, I know who you are and I call you scum,
Worship you? Not a fucking chance son!
You’ll get nothing more out of me,
Except a wry smile when I see,
Another players’ house turned over,
While they’re at an away fixture,
Your karma’s coming back to get you,
Your private estates will not protect you,
You chose to be a pampered tool,
You chose to treat us all as fools,
Forgot those who grew up on the same streets,
You sided with the ruling elite,
Who bought you off with shiny trinkets,
You may flaunt them but don’t forget,
You’re a class traitor plain and simple,
Who now needs protection from their own people.