Kick Off!!

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent Tomas Roncero from barking with a juicy goal,
Silence the stands and with muffled drum,
Bring out Madrid's coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle chearing overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message the League is Here!,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the repellent doves,
Let the officials wear black cotton gloves.

Barça is my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that boredom would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are wanted now: turn on every one;
Pack up the moon and raise the sun;
Say bye to the ocean and sweep up the lawn.
For everything now will come to something good.