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When I ventured out last evening
En route to Aldgate East to shoot off home
East End tourists in doorways
Heard their guide enthuse on days
When the area meant home to tortured souls
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Before I reached the station
I heard the sound of jubilation
Coming from a hotel up ahead
Where The Irons and The Spurs
Were going at it like Bow Bells
Though I’d no idea how much time there was left.
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So I stood and watched the match
Through a pane of clear cut glass
Still not knowing how much time until the fin
See me minces need a check up
So small images right enough
Are a problem less I’m decked out in me bins.
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Two young fellows stood near
Could see proceeding crystal clear
So I asked the question “How long is there left?”
“Two minutes plus injury time”
Switched my allegiance to The Irons
Whilst pleading: “Blow it now, or sooner ref”,
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The Boleyn seemed to roar
Like in the days of Bobby Moore
Every time The Irons lumped it long
Exactly how long could there be
Seemed pretty paramount to me?
As it stood we held the title: Toast of London.
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This pseudo Jedward scored a goal
Which had me screaming out “Oh No”
Stood there in the street somewhat distraught
Spurs via victory in this game
We’re third, as I made tracks down to the train
Cursing neath my breath to end this story!