Poor Scouser Tommy

Let me tell you the story of a pour boy,
Who was send far away from his home,
To fight for his King and his country,
And also the old folks back home.

Well they put him in a highland division,
Sent him off to a far foreing land,
Where the flies swarm around in their thousands,
And there’s nothing to see but the sand,
Well the battle it started next morning,
Under the Arabian sun,
I remember the pour Scouser Tommy,
Who was shot by an old Nazi gun.

As he lay on the battlefield dying, dying, dying,
With the blood gushing out of his head,
As he lay on the battlefield dying, dying, dying,
These were the last words he said.

Oh, I am a Liverpudlian,
And I come from the Spion Kop,
I love to sing,
I love to shout,
And I go there quite a lot (every week),

We support the team that’s dressed in red.
It’s a team that you all know,
It’s a team that we call LIVERPOOL,
And to glory we will go,

We’ve won the league, we’ve won the cup,
And we’ve been to Europe too,
We’ve played the Toffees for a laugh,
And left them feeling blue – 5-0!

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