Glistening streets bedecked with dung
Steaming in the rain
Lead to a home choir singing songs
Before the start of play.
Floodlights beaming brightly
Above tight terraced streets
Shine down on fans like convicts
Shuffling slow with soaking feet.
A police horse with flared nostrils
Spurts steam toward the fans
While a copper smiles at all this
Why? Because he can.
Coachloads of away supporters
Touch down on unknown streets
“What a terrible place, it’s horrible
Where we gonna eat?”.
“What the hell’s a pink un
Where’s the local pub
It’s my shout what yer drinking
Oi landlord, you doing any grub?”
Banter with the other fans
In days before the agg
Singing stupid songs and that
To try and make ’em’ mad.
Seven thirty kick off
Turnstile manic rush
Watch yer team get off the bus
They used to smile and wave at us.
Colored scarves and rosettes
An autograph or two
Some eejit wearing just a vest
Painted white and blue.
Punters without tickets
Trying to bunk in
Turnstile blokes who use their wits
By charging them five quid.
Still the sodding rain came down
As we smoked our fags and sang
In this godforsaken place, in this one horse town
And another match away… began.
We took a whole day out of work for this
To trudge to God knows where
What an awful ground, look at the state of that pitch
And you know whats worse? Their blimmin mascot is a hare!