We’ve wandered lonely as a cloud
To understand the rest of the crowd
And from here to meet upon the heath,
Where football fans can gnash their teeth.
Alas poor success I knew him, Hooray!
To know is to love and dream of today,
Whether to suffer the Trings and Harrows
Of outrageous pitches and rotten furrows.
Food, food everywhere
From a hut the Burgers they’ll make.
I sated my hunger without a care
And how my gut does ache.
Floodlights, floodlights burning bright
Glaring despair as black as night.
This ancient manager is wholly dross
The entire back four, his albatross.
There’s a whisper down the line
That he’s sacked our Number 9
And the Club are being sold to a billionaire.
But the truth’s a bitter pill,
The Number 9 is just ill
And the sale is to a butchers son from Ware.
And did those feet in ancient time
Walk on the terrace of the team sublime.
That do so tread as dread with fear
The relegation now that looms so near.
The quality of mercy is not strained
It relieves the look that is so pained.
The look that says the season’s over
– For a few months now a jilted lover.