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The wait is finally over, our game has returned.
We’ve spent all summer feeling mildly spurned.
To new teams, to new grounds and to all the new faces,
The first game’s away, at Hull of all places.
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Into the swing now with old ritual and routine,
Meeting up with the lads, our shirts still pristine.
The calendar informs today is the equinox,
For us its Spurs, so get it in the box!
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The European adventure continues unabated,
Our trip to Barcelona, oh how we have waited.
The evenings draw in, a match on Halloween night,
This should have been easy, but you gave us a fright.
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As the leaves start to fall our hopes are still rising,
Although losing at home was more than surprising.
The fireworks soar and the bonfires still burn,
Our new centre half has clearly much to learn.
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The yuletide approaches and Rudolph limbers up,
Our gift has come early, we’re at home in the cup.
No rest for the devoted, this is our busiest time,
Three wins in a week and up the table we climb.
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The window swings open, the whole game is a buzz,
But a bad result in Bolton and we’re chased by the fuzz.
Resolutions abound, to go more, or go less,
Either way we’re united, we crave only success.
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There’s never a card from our one true love,
Over all previous romances, you sit comfortably above.
We stand proud, our scarves wrapped tight around necks,
Our players are one of us, despite their pay checks.
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As night turns to day and flowers come to bloom,
Thoughts of glory and trophies begin to all consume.
The rest of the world turns green for one day of the year,
We pray to St. Patrick for luck in this game that we fear.
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Don’t make fools of us now, we are getting so close,
This game is our disease and our cure, we need the next dose.
Hopes washed away in the showers of rain,
Oh take this away, this hurt and this pain.
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Our team is in trouble, we’ve thrown it all away,
The chairman’s on the phone, issuing his own Mayday.
We’re full of despair, a story of love turned sour,
But we know we’ll be back, we’re counting down to the hour.