When the gap began to broaden
When that goal seemed far away
I recall a Sunday maudlin
After. The final game was played.
A mere point was what we wanted
Said point was never on
As I came to the conclusion as a fan
You don’t always get what you want.
Embracing empty concrete steps
Head in hands dismay
The main had left before the end
Of the seasons final game.
Ripped programmes, torn ticket stubs
Discarded flags and scarves
Left by them sat in funereal pubs
Sad buses, grieving cars.
Staring out at the stud scarred pitch
Reliving every kick
When you realize it was not to be
Your reasoning makes you sick.
Floodlights dim, the outlooks grim
As ‘The Coppers’ leave the touchline
Are they here to make sure you’re locked in
As a kind of final punishment?
Whilst grounds men smooth their handicraft
With pitchforks, rakes and shovels
You question your love for this football lark
Is it really worth the trouble?
The team are pig sick in the dressing room
You’re sat near to tears midst the litter
Next term you’ll back to shoot at the moon
Like the Murphy’s… you’re not bitter.
Losing semi finals,
Shoot out’s and extra time
There’s nowt to compare to the utter despair
When it hits, you’re going…down.