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I miss the tang of breath (pie laden),

with bovril hanging heavy;

I miss amassing with tartan toerags,

an away game on the bevvy. 

I even miss the gnawing stomach, 

when it's anybody's game;

God I even miss the auld boys, 

still lost in days of ancient fame. 


The open goal, the blatant foul,

The nerve-jangling goal mouth scramble;

the near myths, the 'but what if's',

and the 'why'd the hell did naeb'dy gamble?'


There's more at stake in these odd times,

and sport's quite rightly in its place;

But when it's back, by god!

There'll be some smile upon my face. 


The dark blue tops are shelved for now, 

Just like the blood-red Diamond;

And I console myself that when it does come back, 

The thrill will be sensationally heightened. 


Awk it's hardly the end of the world, 

And there's so much else to do and see, 

But by god I miss my Fitba', 

My Scotland and Air-da-rie.


By God I miss my fitba',

The sport which means the most to me;

By God I miss my fitba,

My Scotland and Air-da-rie. 


I miss the midweek game of fives, 

a solid hour of huff and puff. 

To bag a goal, you'd sell your soul,

To the god of the astroturf. 


I'm usually one of the fitter guys, 

Just a shame about my touch;

I'll run the guts out the other side,

Though this rarely counts for much. 


When you get a good mix together, 

through weekly switching of the teams, 

you develop a bond that's forged in fire, 

as silly as it seems. 


Yet fives is but an exercise,

In playing out dreams long dashed;

It's really in the going to games,

where the best of fitba is stashed.


The glitz and glamour of Hampden, 

For an international, win or bust (bust);

The grit and guts of Airdrie, 

In whom I for some strange reason trust. 

By God I Miss My Fitba'

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