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We’re aiming our angst at the waster up front
He couldn’t score if their keeper lay static
Fans nearby me were a trifle more blunt
Referring to a birth cert not being valid.
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The chances we missed, and freak goal they scored
Going joyously back to The North points in hand
Replayed so many times on pub’s telly it’s gauling
We’re thinking of giving this boozer a blank.
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Fans pore over programmes from cover to back
Searching for a glimmer of hope
To stop too much drinking, thus bringing on an attack
Of depression, where the whole weekend winds up morose.
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Idols with trophys smile at us from pictures
On a wall adorned with heroes of the past
From the days when our club and it’s mystery
Inspired an interest in us kids sure to last.
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Just then James Alexander Gordon reads out the scores
We hear our fierce local rivals are beat
The mood changes to singing and the crashing of doors
As jubiliant fans race off home, down the street.
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Eternal optism informs me and me mucker
Dire matchdays like this will soon pass
Right now, we’re all lying down in the gutter
But there’s some of us…. looking up at the stars!*