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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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!
Denys E. W. Jones