Three Forty Five. Sunday Afternoon. West London.
¶ 1
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As warm summer showers
Kiss tee shirted fans
We’re queuing outside the ground
To bid adieu from the stands.
¶ 2
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Farewell to Guus and our heroes
Farewell to friends in the seats
“Have a good break mate, see you next season
Don’t get too burnt on that beach”.
¶ 3
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As the turnstiles once more fail to function.
Crowds mood with the sky turns to black.
After chanting abuse at The Irish and Catholics
It’s the turn of the Jews to get tagged.
¶ 4
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Distorted faces of a dad and his youngster.
Rigid right arms in the air.
As I queue up in shame, is this England in May
If it is, then what hope for salvation is there?
¶ 5
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As two angry fans turn to fighting
The sober look embarrassed and sigh
Is there really the need for such sniping
As we queue to get in, and could said pair of fans tell me why?
¶ 6
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As the chants turn to gross from just plain obscene
I take in this scene with a sickening blush
Why should we have to listen to this nauseous singing
As real fans get tarred with the vitriol brush?
¶ 7
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Is it the booze, or the games that we lose
Inciting this anger and hate?
Blame four-o-clock kick offs, Sky TV, Murdoch
But no way have the racists or rabid faced fascists
Disappeared and departed our game!
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