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Well, at least we gave José’s Boys a run for their money.
When up at Goodison McFadden nodded us in front,
We had ‘em rattled, if not quite on the ropes.
For one sweet, shortlived hour we sang, we dreamed, we hoped.
Then Lampard brought us brusquely back to earth.
And to The Bridge proceedings were adjourned.
Alas, the Bookies’ forecasts proved correct –
We’re out, and head home, tails between our legs.
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So now we’ve shot the best part of our bolts.
You may recall our little Euro-jaunt.
And how ‘mid bitter tears it came to nought.
The Trophy sullied by a Brewer’s name
Our Blueclad Skipper shall not hold aloft.
And when the merry month of May returns,
Two other teams in Cardiff shall lock horns.
Thus in our quiver but one shaft remains.
We’ve fourteen or so matches left to play.
And one sole purpose, goal, objective, aim:
To concentrate on the League.
Which is not quite as dull as it might seem.
Some points below the fatal Drop Zone yawns.
With luck we’ll not slide back and be engulfed.
But who can guarantee we’re truly safe?
Then, if at wisps of straw we wish to clutch,
Why, Europe beckons not so far above.
To challenge for a place, is it too late?
Can it be said we’ve missed the Euro-bus?
Not if we’re focussed. Not if we really…concentrate.
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Oh, what a lovely life we lead!
What pleasures it bestows!
The sound of the bells from the herd on the lea,
The scent of a full-blown rose.
The sight of your supper served on a warm plate
As the working-day draws to a close.
A smile from a hassled waitress
When you order your cup of tea.
The pillow, the sheets and the mattress
When you’re flaked out and racked with fatigue.
And the chance, the chance, the too-good-to-miss-chance
To concentrate on the League!