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“You must be mad”, said the McAlpines Clerk,
“It’s three days money, for one, you jerks. . . . ”
What did he know, that quilt from Falkirk,
theres more to life, than brickwork.
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We relieved from duty, the firms big van,
packed it full of ale and site-canteen scran,
made a quick stop at a Newmarket caravan,
to pick up Mad Moran and Davey Callahan.
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But Pat Van den Hauwe, scored, after a minute,
and our hugging and kissing was indescrimate
so of course, Norwich weren’t havin’ it,
but the League was waiting, for us to win it.
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The police removed us, from Their End, to Ours,
and the watching Canaries looked upon our scars,
as if we had landed in Norwich from Mars,
a strange language of “Tell me Ma’s, me Ma’s”
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We were greeted, by the Everton throng,
who to a man, burst into song,
I saw Martin, who was Steelfixing in Hong Kong,
and Ste Collier, who was coaching out in Woollongong.
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After the match, we drank and shared the kitty,
with Norwich lads, who thought our repartee, witty,
and them in sixth place, sitting pretty,
though we’d won the League, we’d lost our city.