Let me tell you a merry old tale
of the day we christened our son.
Gathered down at Garston old church
with family and friends, bar none.
The priest was dressed in his Sunday best
done up like a proper kipper,
as he anointed little Gerard's head
my mind started to flitter.
Something niggled at the back of my bonce,
as the priest droned on and on,
about life and death and the renaissance
we'd experience with our first born son.
When suddenly it hit me like a tone of bricks
the footie would soon be on.
Time was ticking and I was feeling sick
that I might miss kick off.
I pulled out my phone and consulted google
about which pub was showing the match
saw a text from my mate who lived in Bootle
get down the Farriers Thatch
that pub was as rough as hell
but the beer was nice and cheap,
I looked accross at my wife Estelle
and took the proverbial leap.
I leaped like a dancer, and without a doubt
ran right out the echoing hall,
looked back at my wife, shrugged and shouted
"I'm just off to watch the football."
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