In here the blue and white is clinical,
the smell of antiseptic's headed in,
proof our heroes too are blood and muscle,
like the pumping of the ice machine,
Savlon wound wash, pre-injection swabs,
insect repellent, Nivea after sun,
reclining beds that could hold poolside gods,
Keane, Kanoute, Redknapp, Anderton.
This piece of White Hart Lane is sacred ground,
like that other stadium at Delphi,
whose oracle shows things can turn around.
We've protectors who will grant us victory.
Bill Nicholson is our talisman.
The Spurs cockerel heralds a new dawn.
Start from space, with planets in formation
on the football pitch of the universe,
the back four, Sun, Mercury, Venus, Earth,
midfield of Mars, Jupiter and Saturn,
with strikers, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto,
not chilling, but playing for our galaxy
in an interstellar soccer fantasy.
Zoom in until you see our spinning globe,
as though a foot had touched it in midair.
Move closer till somewhere over London
you spot the Tottenham Hotspur stadium.
Focus on the path of our human sphere,
kicked this way and that, as if at random.
Now watch how life rewards goal-led action.
And did those boots in '61
run upon Wembley's turf of green,
and was our Danny Blanchflower
on Wembley's hallowed field seen,
and did goals from Smith and Dyson
nab silver for N17,
and did we see Tottenham
crowned as London's winning team.
Bring on Defoe, who West Ham sold.
Bring on Taricco's hot desire.
Bring on the Spurs. O goal unfold!
Bring King Kanout', who'll never tire.
They'll put the reds and blues to flight,
nor shall the ball lose them a game,
till we have seen Tottenham
bring home success to White Hart Lane.