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Like the Colosseum plebs,
For whom fine favour flows and ebbs,
We will take our seats with very mixed emotions.
Half-afraid, through parted fingers,
We will watch the fare they bring us,
Like a sceptic kneeling palely at devotions.
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For we think the bubble’s burst
And we roundly fear the worst,
And we’re fearful that we might receive a drubbing.
And the crowd will wax linguistic
In a manner masochistic
To a backdrop of three million people blubbing.
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Is the end now nigh for Stan
Just as soon as it began,
With the players pulling out like drowning rats?
Or will those quirky football gods
Conspire to upset all the odds,
And earn a reprieved manager caveats.
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Are we going to watch a hanging?
To engage in vicious slanging?
Or will we go to cheer like proper fans?
Will the thumb be up or down?
Red paint decorate the town?
Or will we re-evaluate the plans?