Lambs to the slaughter
¶ 1
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Oh lily-livered lilywhites
Don’t get above your station.
Premier Prattle’s premature,
It only bores the nation.
¶ 2
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Narrow’s the gate to the promised land
Yet wide to relegation.
Your lambs of god will get the chop,
No way they’re going to the top.
¶ 3
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So bleating Deepdale cops a cull
As Claret marksmen triggers pull.
¶ 4
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Promotion provender left unsupped;
The North End season truly tupped.
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