Mist in the air, a dampness through your bones
As that whistle blows.
It must be full time lads – cos the end is nigh on
Top that bloody bank.
A long way from home, the wet crowded streets
At five on a Saturday night.
But we’re here together, joined up as one in the
Patriotic fervour and fire.
The footballers’ battalion we’re called – from City
From Rovers, from Blighty we came.
And Imaybe the Clubs will miss us when it’s all
Done. Like hell, they will.
So we dig in, resolute. Defend the line lads, just
As we did in that Cup tie.
Fix bayonets Sarge screams. Over the top boys,
The goal’s right over there.
Charge, someone kicks a ball forward. Flesh,
Wire, anger, we’ve lost I fear.
So send a postcard, all jaunty and fun. Home
For next season we’re told.
It never came.