On Stamford Bridge, a swirling mourning mist
Descends upon the day,
Where we’d harp on back to the chances missed
Or what forwards we should play.
Who’s twist for the programmes
Or the Bovrils steaming hot
Who’ll meet me on the East Stand ramp,
Bitterly complaining, coz it’s almost three-o-clock?
Those sanctified treasured moments
Of great away games spring to mind
The four all draw at Hillsborough
After being three behind.
That lovely sunny day down at The Goldstone
When our new team raided town
Speedie and Dixon could have had a barrowload
Before the half time break came round.
Being mesmerised by Patsy
And the iconic Joey Jones
Micky Thomas up at Old Trafford
Terrific times where ere we roamed.
That first and ever only time
We left a match before the end
At Wrexham where we pulled the irons
Out of the fire again.
Dodgy games of poker
On those barbaric football specials
With the onus on us jokers
To keep proceedings mellow.
In crazy all night queues for tickets
We laughed out loud together
What the hell were we playing at,
Stood out in this atrocious English weather?
The rows about our best forward line
With Wee Patsy on the wing
Zola, Speedie and Dixon as yer number nine
Guaranteed to win.
We’ve seen some well weird places John
And watched some blinding games
But that all changes, now you’re gone
And “Over The Bridge” won’t feel the same!