The No-Irish Rover

On the fourteenth of Feb two thousand and twelve
We set sail up the Clyde for Ibrox.
We were on our way there with a cargo of shite
From a man with big hands from near York.
What a ramshackle craft!
She fooled only the daft
And those to whom truth was a stranger.
But the press were convinced
When we served them lamb minced
And they called her the Glasgow Rangers.

We had sailed several years when reality struck
And our ship ran aground on the rocks.
And our fake Rangers crew was reduced by the crooks
To 'loan Rangers', free transfers and crocks.
We could not reach the bank
Our coach walked the plank
Our sails were condemned as a danger.
Bookies cancelled all bets
And we drowned in our debts.
We're the last of the 'Glasgow Rangers'.


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