One year back we were riding high,
Our prospects seemed so bright.
When Carsley struck and sunk the Reds,
Our hopes soared like a kite.
The Gaffer stuck his neck out.
Said we were in contention
To top the League, to end up Champs,
And no-one took exception.
We tucked into our turkey.
We scoffed our Christmas Pud.
And all agreed that, on the whole,
This Life was pretty good.
Now, one year on, we’re not so sure,
We’re racked and worn by cares.
Cruel Fortune’s playing games with us,
She smiles and then she glares.
Our long-awaited Euro-Tour
Proved but a sad, sick joke.
Our dreams of stealing Chelsea’s crown
Have all gone up in smoke.
Though we’ve picked up some points of late,
Survival’s far from certain.
We can but pray that come next May
For us it won’t be curtains.
Yet look, the Twenty-Fifth draws near,
So we’ll try to be merry.
We’ll munch mince pies, we’ll sup some beer,
P’rhaps sip a spot of sherry.
We’ll pull our Christmas Crackers.
We’ll cut our Christmas Cake.
And ponder on the diff’rence
A year in football makes.
Denys E. W. Jones