From behind the Iron Curtain, there came a man of steel

To keep goal for The Celtic in a quiet transfer deal

6'4" between the posts, it wasn't very long,

Until Big Artur Boruc, had earned his own song



Oh the Holy Goalie, you are our hero now,

You stuck it up the Rangers, for that you can take a bow,

You blessed yourself at Ibrox; you sent them off their nuts,

They tried to get you lifted; flicking V's to the bigots,



The Procurator Fiscal, on the word of a big Glesga Polis,

Said you cannot bless yourself in public, he was having none of this,

They marched you down the station; they took your details for the crown,

They cautioned you for the Vicky, but on the blessing they did back down,



So back once more to Ibrox, you seen this as free reign,

To bless yourself quite freely, oh how they popped a vein,

The Huns let out a massive roar; we really felt their pain,

It seemed as if the sight of the sign of the cross, had melted their

collective brain



They wallow in their nonsense, it's traditional we hear them claim

They hate all Roman Catholics; it's the schools they want to blame,

They sing the Famine's over, why don't you all go hame,

With an FTP and the telling of the lie, they are definitely Scotland's shame,



As our Holy Goalie, you certainly helped deliver,

Two league titles on the trot; last 16 for the first time ever,

We've played the best in Europe; we've sent them on their way,

Man Utd or Milan, we beat them the Glasgow Celtic way,



You helped get Eck his jotters, shown Le Guen his P45,

Walter Smith he shafted Scotland to be the next one to arrive,

He's organised the Rangers, got them playing for a draw,

4-5-1 to avoid defeat, it's been called anti-fitba'



The Huns they came a calling, the games were back to back,

We had to win the two of them, to get our title back on track,

In the 1st Big Jan scored a late one, to give us every hope,

In the 2nd you triumphantly whipped off your top, and under it said GOD BLESS THE POPE



And now it's all kicked off again, the country's all asunder,

To Uefa and to Parliament, we can hear their keyboards thunder,

"He crossed himself at Ibrox; he got away with it,

He's shown us the Pope at Parkhead; he's given us a fit"



Oh Artur you should know much better, you are a naughty Bhoy,

You can't inflame the permarage; they're not your own wee toy,

You know they're out to get you, for your faith in the Church of Rome,

You've shown them up too often, you've made their filthy mouths foam



Oh Artur we love you, Oh Artur we do,

You just can't help yourself, antagonising those with noses blue,

Your t-shirt tribute, to Bellahouston's Holy Boss,

Is your way of telling them,

there's nothing wrong in following The Roman Cross