Journal

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June 07, 2002

DON'T FRY FOR ME, MARGE

DON'T FRY FOR ME, MARGE AND GINA

It isn’t easy, you’ll think it’s strange
When I try to explain how I feel
Now you’ve still won the game
After all that’s been done

Pot the big ball, leap back, Beckham got the penalty in the sack
Is Jules Remee coming back? Brittanic yobs scream out ATTACK!
The Argy-Bargy’s weren’t so nice, but our Captain licked Hot Spice
Queen Victoria’s looking thin despite producing Brooklyn

Don’t fry for me, Marge and Gina
Sing with me down the lane
Hold the dinner, pop the cork
Just pour me some champagne

It’s coming home, it’s coming home, our mouths awash with white foam
Rabid cheering in the street, we can’t imagine our defeat
The Argies barged with hand and shoe
But Owen’s shots just flew on through

Don’t fry for me, Marge and Gina
Too much cholesterol
Just give a cheer, pour a beer
And watch the sodding ball

What’s new, Buenos Aires?
Dissemble your brass bands
We whipped your tuchus strong and good
That’s quits for the Falklands…

Don’t fry for me, Marge and Gina
Just kiss me on the lips
The Argies may be Salsa Kings
But we’ve got fish and chips (?)

Diego had the hand of God, he won that match by foul
But big Red crosses line the streets of Great Britain, right now
The village vicar prayed and prayed and sent the boys on their crusade
Forget Maradonna’s magic hand, we’re going to the promised land,

Eretz Japan, Japan HaKadosh…dosh,dosh,dosh,loadsamoney
It’s really getting rather funny
Those Argy players make you feel
They’d rather do a cocaine deal

Don’t fry for me, Marge and Gina
Just make victorious sound
Cry for England, and St. George
Into the second round...

MJ Freed, 07/06/2002
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