My name is Bobby Moore, Sir Bobby to the fans
Although my boots are long hung up, my spirit haunts the stands.
I drift through empty terraces, unseen but ever near
A claret and blue ex-captain, I’ll whisper in your ear.
I watched them train on Halloween, ‘neath Friday’s haunted moon
Nuno’s boys looked weary, has all hope gone this soon?
At Sunderland the curse began, with three goals, no reply
Then Chelsea came to London, all we did was sigh.
Paqueta’s early magic, then five goals rained in fast,
A London Stadium nightmare, the spell was truly cast.
Brentford, Palace, Tottenham, another haunted three
But sadly all the London teams have danced in victory.
And then the new boss Nuno, his clipboard in his hand,
Making team selections no mortal could understand.
His full backs on the wrong side, and no striker in sight
Callum Wilson on the bench, that really couldn’t be right.
Paqueta as a false nine, and Soucek in the middle
Irving in there too, no pace or power, a riddle.
And what about the centre backs, when corners bring us dread,
Nine goals conceded from set pieces, their boots are filled with lead.
I spoke to the squad, my voice echoing through the mist
I’ve got some questions Nuno, a very lengthy list.
Your choices leave us baffled, I know that you’re the boss
Please get it right this time, we can’t take another loss.
The fans still sing my anthem, their scarves held to the sky
But shadows creep along the pitch, and hope is running dry.
The echoes of old triumphs, the roar of distant cheers
Are drowned by restless spirits and mounting modern fears.
The ghosts of Upton Park still wander through the night
They rattle in the rafters, they shiver in the light.
We long for days of glory, for heroes brave and true
But now we’re left with curses and dreams that won’t come through.
The pies are cold and costly, the beer’s a ghostly brew
The players heads are spinning, possessed by something new.
The substitutes are shivering, the bench is freezing cold
They really should be starting that’s if the truth be told.
The spirits of old legends, they gather in the mist
Sir Trev is juggling pumpkins, Di Canio shakes his fist.
Billy Bonds is howling, defend that haunted post
Sir Trev is floating gently, a most polite old ghost
Now here comes Sir Geoff, people on the pitch, how?
They think that it’s all over, it certainly is now.
The shot that hit the bar, ghosts gather and they groan
But even in the afterlife the answer’s still not known.
Martin Peters drifts by, with a pumpkin on his head,
He’s nutmegging the phantoms, his shirt 16 and red.
Arriving late as ever, that’s how he gets his kicks
And that is why he’s known as the ghost of 66.
Alan Devonshire’s dancing, his hair a haunted mop,
He glides through spectral midfielders, they trip until they drop.
He conjures up a cross, it swerves and disappears—
The keeper’s left bewildered, the crowd erupts in cheers!
Julian Dicks arrives, he’s come straight from a rave
He scares off all the wingers, none of them are brave.
A sweet left-footed penalty, he shoots with all his might
But if he played with Nuno he’d be moved to the right.
So heed this haunted warning to every claret and blue heart
The curse can yet be broken, but all must play their part.
Believe in West ham’s spirit, let courage see us through
And maybe then we’ll lift, the curse of the claret and blue.
And through the misty darkness the bubbles start to rise
They shimmer in the moonlight, heading to the skies.
They fly so high as they nearly reach up to the sky
But just like our dreams they begin to fade and die.
Our fortunes forever hiding as we look around in despair
Just keep on blowing bubbles, pretty bubbles in the air.
Now the midnight bells start chiming and the fog rolls off the Thames
The legends fade to shadows but the dream it never ends.
Raise your scarves to the heavens as the voices haunt the night
For every ghost in claret and blue still yearns to see us fight.
With fortunes always hiding, pretty bubbles shining through
One day we’ll break the curse and make our dreams come true.
Under The Hammers 