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loscampesinos



Just like when we were seventeen
We said we'd move to Malta, claim Nationality,
And now that we are twenty-three
Days tethered to the running track,
Evenings chained to the dish rack

I'm called up to the Maltese national team,
My vision is impeccable, my first touch is obscene.
A world cup qualifier finds me fifty, forty, thirty yards
From goal, a late sub on in an off the striker role

Was it wind? Did it take a bad deflection?
A decade spent nursing a fear that you might never make it?
The crowd draws breathe at once it swerves to the top corner
The Sunday tabloid press declares me the new king of Malta.

With my name on shirts, your face on the cash
That every week just piles inside our bank account,
We'd rule the roost and we could start a family
I think we'd make about a hundred million bucks

I head down to the mint and tell them:
Pound every coin deep into the ground
Burn every note in circulation
There's a new face on the currency of our nation.
I hand them a photograph of you,
The most beautiful thing they'd ever seen.
The press starts a rolling, your image on Euros,
The workforce retires to the bathroom.

With my name on shirts, your face on the cash
That every week just piles inside our bank account,
We'd rule the roost and we could start a family
I think we'd make about a hundred million bucks
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written by GARETH PAISEY, THOMAS BROMLEY
Lyrics © NETTWERK ONE MUSIC