Once more unto the breach, dear Yids, once more;
Or close the wall up with our Chick King boxes.
In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man
As Modders stillness and humility:
But when the blast of Azza Blud blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Steffen the Freundts, summon up the Thudd,
Disguise fair shoooooots with hard-favour’d range;
Then lend Arry’s twitching eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the large port drunk in bed
Like the brass cannon; let Sandro’s mono-brow o’erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled Bostock
O’erhang and jutty his confounded drum n’ base,
Swill’d with the wild and wasteful Defoe.
Now set the Jordan’s teeth and stretch the Gallas nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend 3 Metre Peter
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.
Whose blood is fet from London Gin 40° proof!
Fathers that, like Greavsie after 19 Brandy Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till last orders fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of buses home
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call’d Bill Nick did beget you.
Be copy now to men of bulging bagels,
And teach them how to war. And you, good Chirpy,
Whose limbs were made in N17, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble Lilywhite lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like Archibald in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry ‘God for Harry Redshnapps, Tottinghams, and Saint Burkinshaw!’
©Harry-hotspur.com with apologies to the Bard.
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