Highballs Poem by Mary Champion

The Jews have a thing about Yahweh,
while Arabs are Allah's best fans,
all born-again Christians love Jesus,
and Buddhists say Buddha's the man.
Catholics are crazy for Mary,
convinced she's a virgin, of course,
while Jedis have made a decision
to put all their faith in the Force.

There's Marxists and Mormons and Moonies,
sincere, though we think them depraved,
Jehovah's got witness to prove that
it's only the chosen get saved.
Sick Satanists worship the Devil,
while witches keep weaving their spells,
pure theorists worship their theories
and superstars worship themselves.
There's Hindus and there's Hare Krishnas,
each following where his heart calls -
they worship their gods and their gurus,
but an Englishman worships his balls.

There's football and hockey and snooker,
there's basket-ball, rugby and squash,
there's golf, billiards, tennis and cricket
and polo as well, if you're posh.
They sit there in front of the telly
or, if they are truly devout,
they go to the temples to worship
the balls that they care most about.
They pick up the paper each morning
and straight away, turn to the back
to read all the up to date gospel,
and make sure they're on the right track.

But there is one relic so sacred
it's almost worth fighting a war;
a crusade of ball-men determined
to bring it to England once more.
Entranced by its pure golden glory,
the Knights of the Ball will not quail.
They'd sell all their souls to possess it.
The World-Cup is their Holy Grail.

There's gods in the trees and the rivers,
there's gods in the sun and the sky,
there's gods in the past and the future
and little green gods in our eye,
there's money and power and status
and someone has sworn by them all,
but there's none sworn an oath with more feeling
than a man with his hand on his balls.