Well, Emily, after last Saturday’s performance you have
to admit that hope isn’t the thing with feathers – a parrot is.
Hope is the Thing of Leather—
That Nestles in the Goal—
We Sing our Tunes, Belt out the Words—
You’ll win Sweet F.A.—
The current crisis at Anfield is similar to the one you had
with Athletico Amherst last year, which you put down
to the team not touching the ‘This is Amherst’ sign.
Can Liverpool turn their season around?
And sometimes—in a Gale—is Heard—
Walk On Through The Storm—
That Silver-songéd little Bird—
kept the Faithful warm—
Is it true that all your poems can be sung
to the tune of ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas’?
You’re famous for your no-score-drawers.
Do you blame all those appalling refereeing decisions?
Not one of all the Purple Host—
Who took the Flag today—
Can tell the Definition—
So clear, of Victory—
You were very active in the technical area on Saturday.
It looked as though you were kicking every ball.
Have you ever considered picking yourself?
I’ve Shouted from the chilly Stand—
Sometimes at my TV—
At every Penalty, my Plea—
Please Hand the Ball – to Me—
Do you know what they say about you, Emily?
No, John, pray Tell—
They say you never run, you always Dash—