(PLAN A) - Los Campesinos!

Just like when we were seventeen

We said we’d move to Malta, claim nationality

And now that we are twenty-three

Days tethered to the running track

Evenings chained to the dish rack

I’m called up to the Maltese national team

My vision is impeccable, my first touch is obscene

A World Cup qualifier finds me fifty, forty, thirty yards from goal

A late sub on in an off-the-striker role

Was it wind?

Did it take a bad deflection?

A decade spent nursing a fear that you might never make it?

The crowd draws breath at once, it swerves to the top corner

The Sunday tabloid press declares me the new king of Malta

With my name on shirts, your face on the cash

That every week just piles inside our bank account

We’d rule the roost and we could start a family

I think we’d make about a hundred million bucks

I head down to the mint and tell them

«Pound every coin deep into the ground

Burn every note in circulation

There’s a new face on the currency of our nation»

I hand them a photograph of you

The most beautiful thing they’d ever seen

The press starts a-rolling your image on Euros

The workforce retires to the bathroom

With my name on shirts, your face on the cash

That every week just piles inside our bank account

We’d rule the roost and we could start a family

I think we’d make about a hundred million bucks