8 out of 41 aint bad

Smorgo I can coach next year
But that aint getting us nowhere
I’ve drilled the boys as hard as I can
But there’s no clues inside my head

And the fans they can cry all night
But that will never inject that much needed steel
The haters are riling up outside
I think you shouldn’t make me leave here

I pored over our list and poured it out
I tried to prove I’ve got more than grey hair
They’re tired of my mumbling and I’m too tight to shout
They’re looking daggers cos there’s no beers
But before you sack me I keep on telling you

We want it (we want it)
We need it (we need it)
But there aint no way we’re ever gonna win it
Now don’t get mad (Don’t get mad cos)
8 out of 41 aint bad
Now don’t get mad (Don’t get mad cos)
8 out of 41 aint bad

You’ll never pay gold for a coach that can’t teach
You’ll never kill for a ruckman named Street
I know you’re looking for booty with a list full of crocks
But there aint no Norm Smith in the Western Bulldogs box

I can try, To tell you we’re not shot
No matter how I try
I’ll never be able to convince you that I’m worth another shot

There’s only one player that I really loved
And that was many tears ago
And even though I didn’t want him to leave the scene
He up and left the team
Ooh, oh no!

I remember how he left after that stormy meet
He shrugged of the blue white and red
How can he go off and play for Richmond instead
There goes our last thoroughbred.

And he kept on telling me
Kept on telling me

We want it (we want it)
We need it (we need it)
But there aint no way we’re ever gonna win it
Now don’t get mad (Don’t get mad cos)
8 out of 41 aint bad
Now don’t get mad (Don’t get mad cos)
8 out of 41 aint bad

Smorgo I can coach next year
But that aint getting us nowhere

regards,

REB

*Apologies to Meatloaf.