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Down “The Tube” any match, of a Saturday
We’re sardines packed in a grey tin
As club scarved pack-a-macked kids smile and sway
They cast a glance at their parents, who grin.
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Excitement is building, the first big match thrill
Their classmate’s were raving about
As travelling fans both home and away spill
On to an underground platform that’s loud.
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Ticket barriers are open there’s too many people
To queue up and wait in a line
Young eyes seeing crowd, when they first hit the street
Are startled by its movement and size.
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Out of their depth, they’re not at the ground yet
As the singing and shouting rings out
There’s good natured banter aimed toward some poor get
Stood rowing with his bird in the crowd.
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To take everything in a kid would need wings
And a camera to snap till they tired
Getting up near the turnstiles the kids feels a tingling
As stewards point us punters to lines.
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Dad’s got the tickets and knows all the tricks
About pushing and shoving to the front
Fans busy smoking stood laughing and joking
Are courteous and make way for a left behind mum.
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Sat in seats soaking up the surroundings
Where we’re all kids at quarter to three
Mum and dad can almost feel a young heart start pounding
With excitement as they take in the scene.
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“We know players names, it’s us pays their wages”
Some wag in the seats bellows out
Team changes read out and after what seem like ages
Harry J and His All Stars crank it up to chill out the crowd.
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An old one near by who’s seen both the glory
And the days when we frankly were dire
Uses apt French to put a fin to a kids first match story:
“Vous etes bien jeune, je voudrais avoir votre devenir”.*