A new season comes and we’re all filled with hope.
Hope, hope and the years slip by.
Soon it is May, and we can but mope.
Mope, mope as the years slip by.
Players are bought and players are sold.
Bought, sold for a fee sky-high.
But never a sign of bronze, silver or gold,
Out in the cold as the years slip by.
Managers hired and managers fired.
Hired, fired in the blink of an eye.
But this only serves to increase our ire.
Aye, ire, you heard me right.
Pledges are made and promises broke.
Made, broke like a child’s cheap toy.
Our once mighty Club is the butt of the joke.
Joke, joke and we can’t reply.
There’s much talk of Projects, Rome not in day built.
Build, build, yet the years roll by.
And we can’t help weeping at milk that’s been spilt.
Spilt, spilt and our tears won’t dry.
Can anyone tell us, does anyone know?
Where, where does the answer lie?
When once again we with pride will glow?
Glow, glow with our heads held high!
Denys E. W. Jones