The Eagles aren’t really a football club, they’re more a Frankenstein’s Monster, created in a lab.
Still, they pose as one, and set their Club Song to the tune of Battle Hymn of the Republic. Here’s our version:
“Mine eyes have seen the folly of the merging of these teams;
They’ve created a dread hybrid, sawdust spilling from the seams,
They shed their feathers to the strains of awful, awful screams
And still they jabber on.
They’re the bleating, cheating Eagles,
Just a basket of illegals,
They’re the moaning droning Eagles,
With luck they’ll soon be gone…
With luck they’ll soon be gone.”
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