by Graeme MacKenzie
Written after the Scottish football team had been humiliated by the Faroe Islands in the European Championship.
You could say Iím troubled.
But not by the state of the ever falling stock market
And not by the threat of a meteor or comet
It may seem foolish to remark whilst we wage war on Iraq
But itís the state of Scottish football that gets me down.
Could I say that Iím afraid?
Of the foreigners who invade
And take up arms and feet
On our pitches every week.
In retrospect, the signs of decline were very clear
Before Bosman came along like some martyr pioneer
But then it started - suddenly and without any kind of warning,
Our nation was infested and the damn thing just caught on.
From Dundee to Aberdeen
Every one now a foreign team
Full of swarthy, sweaty, meaty, greasy-trying to make the game look easy.
When all we want are boys whoíll wear the-blue
Oh, Christ! what can we do?
So what could be done to try and counteract
The fact that no one cared for what our game really lacked?
The appointment of a new coach to the National side
Didnít inspire and restore the falling, clichťd pride.
Full of youth and promise, but without the pedigree
A team full of nothing instills no guarantee.
Still the future beckons and we need to carry on
No fingers left to cross and nowhere to belong.
Heads cannot go high and shame creeps into reign
And Berti braves the boos and the Tartan Armyís pain.
There is no rhyme or reason and I simply canít explain
Why we must send the foreigners homeward
And make them think again.