There's no doubt that our team is fuchen sensational,
Even though our fans' issues are mostly vocational,
With European Cups and English Titles to our name,
No wonder we believe that we're greats of the game.
From Shankley to Paisley, and Hansen too,
Even the flops such as Bruno Cheyrou,
We've had the greatest names the world's ever seen,
As opposed to United's team full of has beens.
We've got the strongest midfield on the planet,
The greatest defence; attackers can't stand it,
A revolutionary keeper, who keeps the ball out,
And a footballing legend; they call him Dirk Kuyt.
"It's on, it's our year," we repeatedly scream,
Are we living in a ridiculous pipe dream?
A good start in August, we've already won,
Cross it in to Nando, on your head son!
September passes by, more of the same,
We're fuchen brilliant at this beautiful game,
19-6, we're gonna win the double,
Who is going to burst this oversized bubble?
October arrives and the collapse begins,
Due to the signing of Voronin,
What's going wrong? Why can't we score?
And why is Nando still rolling on the floor?
Those Manc bastards, they're steaming ahead,
I wish that Ferdinand would fuchen drop dead,
Ronaldo's not even good, yet they're a one man team,
How this makes sense, remains to be seen.
A John O'Shea goal, and the damage is done,
Another clean sheet, and the inbreds have won,
They don't abide by the rules to which we adhere,
But this doesn't matter, just wait 'til next year!
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