Alex Ferguson Homesick Blues

Arsene’s on the TV, moanin’ in the microphone,

I’m on the cell phone, talkin’ like a megaphone.
The man in the black shirt, flag out, played off-
side; I got a red top, I wanna knock his fade off.

Look out, Joe,
it’s somethin’ you know.
God knows what, but you feel it in your gut,
you better duck through the changin’ room,
lookin’ for a shortcut,
the man in the sharkskin suit with his back up
wants a shiny silver spoon, and you only got cups.

Rooney goes club foot, can’t kick a tree root,
scuddin’ like a shot put, we won 3-1 but
the Sun’s mad anyway,
Rooney says that many say
we missed out on Afellay,
and can’t win with O’Shea.

Look out, Sam,
it’s all just a scam.
Drumsticks and bordeauxs,
one-nils, two-ohs;
the hotel’s late show’s
got you drinkin’ merlots.
Lose your own toes,
don’t read bad prose.
You don’t need a referee to know where extra time goes.

Ohhh…hard times, hard sell,
poppy on the lapel,
if Welbeck won’t gel,
recall him from the loan spell.
Talk loud, act proud,
be wronged, don’t fail,
don’t quail, rebel,
the BBC can go to hell.

Look out, Raf,
they’re havin’ a laugh
at handshakes, fact-sheets,
low-down backaches,
someone else’s bad tweets.
The boys down on Fleet Street
are workin’ at a white heat;
don’t breathe the ozone
or fire up the Prozone.

Ohhh…contacts, contracts,
meet sheikhs, kiss cheeks, plug your leaks,
red birch, skip church,
knock ’em off the high perch.
Play Giggs, duck eggs, sell Becks,
throw boots, write checks—
fifty years of football and they only ask you who’s next.

Look out, Mark,
you’re all in the dark.
Better climb down a ladder,
meet the Mad Hatter,
don’t hear chatter,
try to avoid Sepp Blatter.
Don’t wanna be a Blue,
you better soft shoe;
the brains don’t work
’cause the adder ate the matter.