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Through the leafy Vale of Kent
A pal of mine had sped
Racing in his van against the clock
His mind on a quarter to three
Where ‘The Lions’ trod the green
Was dominant, as he was forced to make a stop.
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In the comfort of his van
“No-one likes us…” proudly rang
As he waited on a temporary traffic light to change
Why he could almost feel the rush
That comes to thousands just like us
Waiting on the start to every game.
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Tapping chants out on the dash
A “Lions” tee shirt on his back
The van a mausoleum to ‘The Den’
Comprising colored shots of Cripps,
Sheringham, and Kitchener
Plus Hurlock that most feared of Millwall men.
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As the traffic light turned green
He was singing loud and keen
To get his derriere in gear and head for home
Though the car in front of him front hadn’t moved
His “We are Millwall” kind of mood
Gave him hope, he’d soon be on the go.
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When the lights returned to green
There was instant change to his demeanor
When once again the car in front stayed still
So angrily honking on his horn
An “Oi mister move that wreck of yourn”
Was aimed toward the bloke behind the wheel.
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Loudly bib bibbin on his horn
As a repeated get a move on warning
He nervously kept looking at the clock
Then as the leafy Vale of Kent
Was swept by shards of angry rain
He was worried he would fail to make the kick-off.
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When the lights went green again
Any thoughts of Cold Blow Lane
Were lost, replaced by angry horn’s tirade
Then as the car in front’s door opened wide
Its tired suspension breathed a sigh
As this Adonis in his glory stood up straight.
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With a sense of purpose to his stride
He strode toward this pal of mine
Arriving at the van by drivers door
Where he quickly grabbed me china’s keys
An a “YOU start me motor, I’ll hold these,
Sit in your van and play bib the bleeding horn!”