For
gold at Wembley
Mam
and me and Auntie May
Went
up for wimberries.
When
stirring tales are told,
Worth
more than cups of gold
When
you are six years old
Are
cups of wimberries.
Chorus
When stirring tales are told,
Worth
more than cups of gold
When
you are six years old
Are
cups of wimberries.
Moore
and Banks that afternoon
Grabbed
my attention
And
to learn their secret soon
Was
my intention.
One
thought possessed my mind:
To
clamber up and find
Moors
of a mossy kind
And
banks of wimberries.
What
a treat when our elite
Performed
the hat trick!
We
completed greater feats
Than
even that trick.
In
sweltering single file
We
hiked for half a mile,
Climbed
over knobbly stiles
To
get to wimberries.
Auntie
May said, ‘Best beware,
Some
sheep have been here.
Other
colours can be seen
Than
blue and green here.
You’d
better put them down,
They
make a juicy sound,
They’re
round and smooth and brown
But
they’re not wimberries.’
Auntie
May has passed away
And
mam is ailing
And
the English football side
Is
used to failing.
My
fancy flees away
To
blazing Summer’s days
And
through a lazy haze
I’m picking wimberries.
Tune: ‘Who would true valour see’; Words: © 2003 Robert Atkins