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So where was the value, in last night’s victory?
Ok yes, another trophy
Another cache of millions, in prize-money
A three goal cushion
Bragging rights over North London rivals
And the delight in denying them a Champions League spot
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But in the numinous sense?
Have we lost the plot?
The match played out
In a soul-less stadium
In front of barely any true-fans
And those that were there
Had to make outlandish plans
We wanted a Ryanair romp, in all our pomp
But had to trek, to a far outpost of quasi-Europe
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We should have been talking about
Glory days, bright futures
Transfers in, transfers out
Loans sealed, or repealed
And whatever happened, to Izzy Brown?
Instead, all the chatter on soshe
Is about back handers and brown envelopes
Of Blatter’s boots
Being filled by others in cahoots
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And where’s the value, with a 3 goal gap and 3 minutes to go
In subbing on the un-zippy Zappacosta?
Why not reward the Young Player of the Year, Conor Gallagher?
Why not brighten up with Ampadu?
Or blood McEachran or Cumming?
Thoughts to occupy the mind
On the way back from Baku, when serially thumbing!
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And how can we truly celebrate
When everyone’s favourite son, is setting sail?
All in all, it’s a sad tale
And for those in the know
Football could be heading in a direction
Where no-one wants to go