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The tannoy sits silent as a mark of respect
For a long season over, so what comes next?
Plant seeds down the touchline where grass is sparse
Reliving great goals scored in matches past.
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Up North, down South, East or West
Imbibing well dodgy fan fare past it’s best
Our high noon, or swansong in a Northern town
Was singing songs, and applauding whilst three goals down.
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Our idols are shallow now, flog the lot
Shine all the floodlights on the penalty spot
Where The King lies buried neath his past domain
Of an eighteen yard box where he made his name.
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The bars are all empty now, shut every one
Pack up well dodgy pies and stale hot-dog buns
Cast aside shattered dreams whilst remembering
Of the two teams playing, only one will win!