Your days of great glory will never recur,
The League is no longer attainable.
Football has changed, you must surely concur,
And success is no longer sustainable.
When you voted to form a financial elite,
You wrote yourselves out of the story.
You grasped TV money with selfish conceit,
But you gave up your chances of glory.
The gulf that exists between fourth place and third
Grows wider and wider each season.
Money is now the most dominant word –
That’s the simple and obvious reason.
Martin O’Neill won’t bring you success,
No more than the Lord up above you.
The die has been cast, you will fail to impress,
And your future’s uncertain, God love you.
Leave Houllier be, he has done a good job,
Though you’re no longer Pride of the North.
Your club sold its soul for a few lousy bob,
So be grateful, and battle for fourth.
There’s many a club that has fallen from height,
With memories sweet to sustain them.
Trophies aren’t viewed as their personal right,
And they know that they seldom will gain them.
But once in a while, there’s a League or a Cup
That returns the old fire to the soul,
A push for promotion, a fight to stay up,
The sheer bliss of an extra time goal.
Divine right to glory was never bestowed.
Past triumphs will not be respected.
The Liverpool team for nigh twenty years glowed,
And deserved all the silver collected.
But time is a hiker who never turns round
To gaze at the journey behind him.
Determined as always to cover new ground,
No visual crutch to remind him.
So fourth place is all you may hope to attain,
But of course you will never admit this.
But try and remember, when racked with great pain,
You lobbied so hard to permit this.