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Chanting and screaming, we turn the air blue
Holding one’s head in one’s hands
Almost losing the plot with the young millionaire who
Did a Roger Davies when missing that chance.
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Dreaming of days when the idols you watched
Were real men who you knew would plough on
Till the very last seconds on a referees clock
Nowadays with that hand spin they’re gone.
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Architects errors where we sit watching games
(Where the blind-spots can drive one ballistic)
Of a working class sport lacking all three to it’s shame
Full of punters like me who sure miss it.
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Eastern Bloc concourses cold without soul
In dire need of a good coat of paint
Where drunks through a haze diss the team, then yell Goal
At the live telly’s showing ’em’ the game?
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The jack’s a pop hamburger, that’s 100% beef
From some nag that was slaughtered we’re told
At least when outside being robbed on the street
Such fare isn’t totally disgusting and cold.
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Nail chewing, clock watching, how long to go?
To stay put or miss that last train
It’s gotta be full time ref, come on please blow?
When he does, we’re relieved of our pain.
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Arguments had with a same coloured scarf
On who should be leading the team
Up front on his own, are you having a laugh?
Where opinions can change through the season.
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The ‘I know a bloke’ gossip, we use to impress
That’s as sound as a castle on sand
Trying to outdo our neighbours (it came from the press)
We’ve a big move for so and so planned.
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That return to the real world on leaving
As the blood pressure slowly comes down
And guess what? We’ll be back there next term believing
Which is why we always go back to The Ground!