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作曲 : Tom Campesinos |
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Just like when we were seventeen we said we'd move to Malta, |
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Claim Nationality, |
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And now that we are twenty three - days tethered to the running track, |
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Evenings chained to the dishrack. |
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I'm called up to the Maltese national team, |
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My vision is impeccable, my first touch is obscene. |
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A world cup qualifier finds me fifty, forty, thirty yards from goal, |
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A late sub on in an off the striker role. |
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Was it wind? Did it take a bad deflection? |
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A decade spent nursing a fear that you might never make it? |
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The crowd draws breathe at once, |
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It swerves to the top corner, |
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The Sunday Tabloid press declares me the new king of Malta. |
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|
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With my name on shirts, your face on the cash that every week just piles inside our bank account, |
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We'd rule the roost and we could start a family I think we'd make about a hundred million bucks. |
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|
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I head down to the mint and tell them: |
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Pound every coin deep into the ground, |
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Burn every note in circulation |
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There's a new face on the currency of our nation. |
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I hand them a photograph of you, |
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The most beautiful thing they'd ever seen. |
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The press starts a rolling, your image on Euros, |
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The workforce retires to the bathroom. |
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|
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With my name on shirts, your face on the cash that every week just piles inside our bank account, |
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We'd rule the roost and we could start a family I think we'd make about a hundred million bucks. |
