It’s the hope that kills or
– why do we always end up at the beginning?
It’s such a fragile existence supporting Ingerland ,
we get sucked in by the hype, fly the flags high .
We polish the hope and dream of the glory
but it’s all a bubble, and there’s gonna be trouble .
We sit on our eggshells knowing.
Fresh faces impress ,
but don’t plan attack without forming a defence .
Doors left open , assassins deliver.
Beaten by teams
with more of a clue
no ‘nearly there’ penalties this time.
Time to kindle the blame .
Pencils are sharpened and fingers will point .
The captain warns of a long hurt summer .
And we , the supporters , are KOd – no need to count .
But why this national obsession
with pinning all onto a dream ,
when we know full well
we are far from the best ?
All were agreed we wouldn’t get far
… Now the searing pain
of futile hope extinguished
– that’s the killer .
So where do we go from here
the red tops will ask as always.,
Back down that well trodden route
to square one