| Dublin Guy |
There's a place we know where Scousers go and it's always lots of fun,
You can have a laugh at many things if you're ready with a pun,
You can mock the dead of Munich be glad that George Best's dead,
You can sing a dozen funny songs of Duncan Edward's head,
You can hope Gary Neville gets cancer and that he dies,
Throw ammonia at Whiteside and hope it blinds his eyes,
You can even stone an ambulance where Alan Smith is lying,
even if it doesn't overturn it's bound to be fun trying,
You can talk of many pleasant things with your like-minded mates,
but you'll pause to show such reverence as you pass the Shankly Gates,
Where every single Scouser who ever passed away,
must be honoured and respected have their own special day,
Cos Scousers are a special breed their hearts upon their sleeve,
they ask the country to join in and watch them as they grieve,
They celebrate and they respect each Scouser who departs,
they ask that we can shed their tears and nurse their broken hearts,
Yet mention dead of anyone who doesn't fit their own,
they laugh out loud there is no shred of honour ever shown,
They laugh at young men dying on runways filled with ice,
and celebrate that Munich day and never would think twice,
of mocking Harold Shipman's dead that lived within our city,
these wallowers in plastic grief the masters of self pity,
They wave their tin foil silverware and throw cups filled with ,
to shower on opposing fans but never will admit,
It's "justice for the 96" but never 39,
It's grieving for 'poor' Michael Shields but not for Heysel dying,
It's always everybody else they're not the ones to blame,
it was Chelsea, Yorkshire coppers it's always been the same,
We've all shed tears as 96 lay dying on the floor,
but our sympathy has long since died we'll grieve with you no more. |
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