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We’ve been here before though I can’t re-call when
Locked stadium doors, threatened administration
Punters in tears with their history in shreds
Those up and down years immortalised in their heads.
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We live in a world of whose turn is next?
Where the cash strapped are nailed on to fall
Those of us well off in West London could never expect
To see our local club, almost go to the wall.
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When half empty terraces would coldly recall
Those great halcyon days through a mist
The night at Old Trafford when Dave Webb scored that goal
Is but a dream, if our club don’t exist.
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Keith Burkinshaws’ words seem apt at this time*
As orphaned fans walk cold streets in despair
“I fondly remember White Hart Lane in its prime
When there used to be a football club there”.