In tiny little Edinburgh, far from the city’s clamour,
Lived a brave wee team who who chose to shun the fitba’ glitz and glamour.
The Glasgow giants had Gucci boots and jerseys made of silk,
The Hearts boys lived in tents and huts and dined on grass and milk.
Their boss a gambling billionaire, with little to his name,
Except a property empire that put Ancient Rome to shame.
With clubs in the English Premiership and in Belgium’s highest tier,
He was suited to the underdogs, that much was very clear.
Now it came to pass in the season twenty-five and twenty-six,
This tiny little team was up there firmly in the mix.
Because of course they played so well and never gave up the fight,
But mostly because the two big teams were absolutely shite.
As spring turned into summer and the final games came near,
The Gorgie fans were bursting full with patriotic cheer.
We’ll take three points from Motherwell without a loyal doubt,
And then we’ll head to Celtic Park and finish off the rout.
But while the Jambos smiled and laughed and briefed their usual sources,
Their hopes and dreams were under threat from dark and evil forces.
Though they’d stayed atop the Premiership with union flags unfurled,
The final week would see Hearts play alone against the world.
The CIA and KGB would do all in their power
To make the end of season go from honey-sweet to sour.
MI5 and Hamas joined the US Navy Seals,
And the Vatican and the Moonies struck up dirty, cheating deals.
The Illuminati tugged their hoods and met by candlelight,
To make sure Edinburgh’s finest wouldn’t have a clean, fair fight.
Hezbollah prepared their drones, China mobilised its troops
To make sure plucky little Hearts were murdered by the Hoops.
A nailed-on penalty denied, the flames of anger fanned,
And suddenly it became a foul to head the ball with hand.
So it all came down to the blessèd Sabbath noon,
Just a point would see the green whale hit with a Hearts harpoon.
In the roiling Parkhead cauldron a Hearts hand lightly brushed the ball
And ISIS and the AOH told the ref to make the call.
Then an offside goal was given using all the dark-art tools,
By a sleeper cell in the VAR HQ who were bribed to know the rules.
And just as Hearts were poised to claim that last-gasp title point,
As Rod the Mod’s big nose was set to get knocked out of joint,
The Magic Circle waved its wand and cast a wicked spell,
And now we’re left to sob and ring the mournful pity bell.
In Tynecastle they’ll ne’er forget the year of twenty-six,
When little Hearts were laid low by an Elvis-Shergar fix.
The People’s Champs they call them and the whole world knows that’s true,
So let’s pretend they have the cup and Hearts and Celtic drew.
