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White Hart Pain

1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 Mother, get up, unlock the door,
Look, through the window-pane
I see a young fan with scarf in his hand
Outside in the pouring rain.

2 Leave a comment on verse 2 0 His clothes are all drenched, his hair is unkempt,
His shirt is with lager stained.
He’s in a foul mood, morale in his boots,
And he comes from White Hart Lane.

3 Leave a comment on verse 3 0 His hopes were high when he rose at five,
To catch that Special Train,
That carried him south with a bunch of youths
He’s wont to call his mates.

4 Leave a comment on verse 4 0 They went in pursuit of a point or two,
But all that they reaped was pain.
For their Team got beat comprehensively,
To be blunt, they were shot down in flames!

5 Leave a comment on verse 5 0 The long, slow journey home was nothing but gloom,
And heads that were hung low in shame.
For the money they’d paid and the effort they’d made
Had, alas, all been quite in vain.

6 Leave a comment on verse 6 0 Mother, get up, put tea in the pot,
And dig out some biscuits or cake.
I see a sad fan, sheet-white and forlorn,
Downcast like a clipped-winged crane.

7 Leave a comment on verse 7 0 His spirits are low, he wails and he groans,
His features contorted and strained.
For he’s been to The Spurs and he swears by the stars
That he’ll never go there again!

8 Leave a comment on verse 8 0 16/11/06
Denys E. W. Jones

1

Notes

This is a re-working of a poem by Charles Causley entitled Mother, Get Up, Unbar the Door. I hope this will strike a chord with fans of any northern team who have ever made the long trip south to London to see their heroes play at Tottenham and…lose.

Source: http://footballpoets.org/poems/white-hart-pain/