The legend lives on from old Wembley on down
of the game known as football or soccer.
The game, it is said, fills your heart and your head
but is capable of many a shocker.

With a load of big sound, the fans all come around
singing songs of derision and glory.
Those crowds big and true take the piss out of you
and a few of them might turn things gory.

The fans all now slide to the African side
as in Johannesburg they all gather.
The world becomes one, and they're having some fun
but there's one thing that's become a bother.

Concluding each game, and beginning the same
and in play throughout every contest
are those long plastic horns, every evening and morn
all the locals have foisted them on us!

We hear all this buzz, and we should call the fuzz
but they say it's part of local color.
As traditions go, more annoying than most
and the buzzing gets louder and duller!

Korea and Spain, they agree it's a pain
and the Argentines think that it's loco.
The English and Dutch hate those horns very much
and it's messing with Brazilians' mojo!

When suppertime came, the German coach came on deck
saying, "Fellas, I can't eat my bratwurst."
At 7 PM, the Italians gave in
saying, "Paisans, their ultras, they've got worst!"

The captains wired in, saying, "Refs, who can win
when those horns have been blown by those fellas?"
And later that night, as the sound gave us fright
came the wretching from those vuvuzelas!

Does anyone know where the love of the game goes
when the buzzing goes on for two hours?
We can't pass the ball, or stick it in the goal
and our goalies have committed howlers!

Our players screwed up and the balls have capsized
and the horns have caused gaffes of goalkeepers.
And all that remains are the faces and names
of a world full of swearers and weepers!

The crowd noise rolls as the geezers they sing
how opponents just sing when they're winning.
They might whine and moan that you'll never walk alone
and at full-time, go off for some sinning.

And farther below, the vuvuzelas blow
in a land once besmeared by apartheid.
We wish those folks well, but the horns sound like hell
and I'd like to break them all apart right!

In a musty old hall in New York I spectate
while surrounded by red-white-and-blue fellas.
I wonder, Rob Green, did you mess up that scene
due to wretching from those vuvuzelas?

The legend lives on from Johannesburg down
of the horns that give big headaches to me.
The horns, it is said, wish they'd give up for dead.
More than Maradona, those things are goofy!