It’s a tough old sport when losing runs
Mean pointless games when day is done
False expectation that you’ll win
Or the cheek you turn and force a grin.
The week of work you struggle through,
After last week-end’s abysmal do
Of joshing mates and jibing loves
Those taking Michaels down the pub.
Your head held high you ride it out
Hoping fate soon turns it round
Where half-time means a joyous break
From chances made and rare mistakes.
You even empathise with barren blokes
The brunt of some quite imaginative jokes
Or the off-field drama’s in the press
One reads, believes, when times are stressed.
Then a ray of light comes shining through
Via the telly thus inspiring you
To believing when your heart said right;
This evenings gonna be some night!
The prized clean sheet, the treasured blank
The sacred ace in every pilgrims pack
If they don’t score, and we nick one
We’re off away (sic) again back on a run.
The fractured rib, our Wounded Knee
Where the stand in keeper nervously
Stood his ground and kept them out
As our coach (or bus) roared out aloud.
Then a venture to a hallowed ground
Where pulses race and hearts do pound
We play our game and win two nil
Pay our fare (take the bus) and thus exit… Anfield!