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Arsenal was my team when I was young,
The red and white shirts, the sight of the gun,
I stayed up late to watch them one night,
As on penalties they lost the Cup Winners fight.
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The Early 80’s were times of little glee,
Except my first visit up to Highbury,
Then glory at last, the George Graham years
And I’m now old enough to buy my mates beers
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Onto the 90s now it’s Premier League I cry,
Although I can only afford to watch it on Sky,
Years in the wilderness, no match day grub,
Just a view of someone’s head as I watch in the pub.
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Then out of my coma I awake one morning,
To the sound of Leyton Orient calling,
It might not be pretty; it might not be top draw,
Yet it’s real, and it’s raw and we all know the score.
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Now I take my boy, so he can see it up near,
A real match day build up, the smell of the beer,
You can hear the fans, as the striker makes a run,
But better than that this is Orient my son.