Who the hell is he? I ain’t got a clue
A bespectacled Frenchman – Arsene who?
Think he was at Monaco, then Grampus Eight
And now he’s at our place, wow, fucking great.
Pints were put down and fags were put out,
It’s grilled fish and brocolli, chicken and sprouts.
Drills to the second, how weird, how uncouth,
The bodies of the old boys redsicovered their youth.
A double in his first year,
Dennis at his peak, Vieira, Overmars, Wrighty, Petit.
The old back four solid, safe hands in goal,
The league title at Highbury, a pleasant Wembley stroll.
Henry arrives for eleven million quid,
Replacing Le Sulk, he’s fucked off to Madrid.
A winger turned striker, you’ll get there, chum,
He did, and how, in spades, and then some.
Giggs at the replay, the Turks at The Parken,
Owen’s damned left foot, the light seemed to darken.
Three seasons with nothing, we stumble and fall,
But fuck it, it’s football, you can’t win ‘em all.
And now, Robert Pires, D’Artagnan from Marseille,
Gilberto adds steal, the invisible wall,
There’s Ljungberg and Bergkamp - the best of them all?
In comes Big Sol, and we’re falling about,
The mob up the road - ‘Judas!’ they shout.
Shut up you tossers, he’s here, red and white,
Your Captain, your leader, from your Hart Lane of Shite.
Back we came stronger, a Premiership again,
Thierry sparkling, a king among men.
‘It’s only Ray Parlour’, yeah, pick that one out,
Freddie’s sweet finish, Pride of London? No doubt.
Thirty eight games played, twenty six games won,
Twelve are draws and losses? Not one.
Invincible, untouchable, peerless, any more?
Legends, each one of you, the class of ’04.
Vieira’s last kick, Paris heartbreak in the rain,
These feelings of football, of joy and of pain.
More madness at Wembley, more title hopes crashed,
The press rubbed their hands as they saw our dreams dashed.
Then Barca came calling and ripped out our heart,
And Fuckface seduced like a gold digging tart.
As the rats left the ship, into the arms of another,
You could still hear them whingeing and blaming each other.
But still you carry on, strong, on a mission
Your young charges tasked with seeing through your vision.
Black Scarf, marches, some want you to go,
Trust or Rust? Some have forgotten you know -
The good that you’ve done, and the way that you did it,
With panache and intelligence, good humour and wit.
So for all you haters, just look back and see,
Where this club was and where it could be.
So thank you, Arsene Wenger, for the past fifteen years,
The trophies, the glory and even the tears.
You’re a gentleman, a scholar, to you I raise my glass,
Miracle worker, Arsenal legend, manager – first class.