With apologies to Max Boyce
We travelled in our thousands to cheer Gatland’s fearless men,
Some remortgaging their houses just to rustle up the yen.
We tried the local saké, getting horribly pie-eyed,
But avoided any restaurants where they dish up whales stir-fried!
And we were stringing out the eight weeks,
Far from old Cymru, for memories.
The Japanese are Buddhist, a bit holier-than-thou,
Strict etiquette conventions demand a grovelling bow
Whenever you meet someone, no matter where you roam,
But that’s no problem for us Welsh – we’re used to it back home!
And we were bringing hwyl and laughter,
Just like our comrades, in years gone by.
Big Gwyn went to the sumo, but he didn’t stay there long.
Mistaken for a wrestler, he was squeezed into a thong!
Dai paid for a Geisha girl, such a pretty little chick,
All was going perfectly until ‘she’ unveiled a dick!
And we were clinging to a pipe-dream,
Wyn Jones triumphant, World Cup aloft.
The boys won Group D nicely, wiping out those Aussie smiles,
And silencing the accent that pronounces Wales as ‘wiles’.
Then France were sent home early in their usual disgrace,
After what-his-name’s elbow rearranged poor Wainwright’s face!
And Josh was winging down the touchline,
Scored a great hat-trick, it was divine.
Obligatory knock-out followed like the rising sun,
South Africa out-boxed us, if you’ll pardon the bad pun.
Fans were philosophical, they were getting sick of rice
And, as a consolation, the Springboks slaughtered the Sais!
And we were singing hymns and arias,
Land of my Fathers, Ar Hyd y Nos… (repeat to fade)