Stop all the clocks, gaze sadly at your smartphone,
Prevent Adrian Chiles from talking with a juicy bone,
Silence Phil Neville and with saddened footfall
Walk to the pub to find there is no football.
Let aeroplanes taking Yanks and Swiss back to base
Scribble on the sky that Suarez is a disgrace,
Take the roaming cameras off the prettiest lasses,
The fat tattooed blokes and desolate Mexican masses.
Football our North, our South, our East and West,
Our midweek special and Super-Sunday best,
The World Cup our endless stream of joy, our hope, our song;
We thought it went on forever, it turns out we were wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put them away;
Lawro and Lineker, and Murphy - for a day.
Let commentators and pundits have a swim, a drink, a bite.
We'll struggle on with Wimbledon and come back tomorrow night.