Old Reg had his corner in the St Andrew's pub.
Ninety years he'd been subbing,
it was more like his club.
And each night, after two pints,
he'd sing his sad tune,
like a wolf on the prairie that bays at the moon.
When the blues win the cup,
they can call me on up,
cos I'll be in heaven when blues win the cup.
Did we do something wrong,
cos it's taking so long?
I pray for the day when they'll answer my song.
He was down there at Wembley,
1931,
when the Albion did him,
but he still cheered them on.
He was there in 56,
when they lost it again.
But he smiled, and he sang,
and it helped
ease the pain.
Reg
vowed he'd live to see the great day.
The blue and white cup,
on the old Wembley way.
Even when he was 80,
and he was too old to go,
he still kept his scrapbooks,
and he sang
sweet and low.
When the blues win the cup,
they can call me on up,
cos I'll be in heaven when blues
When the villa,
the wolves, and the Albion crowed,
old Reg kept right on to the end of
the road.
But he breathed his last breath on the day that he heard
that the blues had
been shamed and gone down to the third.
Now the St Andrew's pub, well, it just isn't
the same.
There's no Reg asking questions about the last game.
But the landlord, he
swears when the night's dark and ***,
there's a voice sings a song,
and that song's like an hymn.
When the blues
win the cup,
they can call me on up,
cos I'll be in heaven when blues win the cup.
Did we do something wrong,
cos it's taking so long?
I pray for the day when they'll answer my song.