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The mega-store’s shut and that strange little hut,
Where the burgers and pies are dispensed,
Has been covered in home fans graffiti
Telling all, the clubs chairman is bent!
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The floodlights stand tall like four guards on patrol
Watching the ground through the break
There’s an emptiness here, we’ve not noticed this year
That reminds one, somewhat, of a wake!
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The fans were a singing and cheering
As a whistle blast finished the game
Then the old songs were sung as near to tears
Die hards, found emotions they could not contain
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The dressing room doors need a fresh coat of paint
The gloss has turned dull in a year
Just like the teams hopes they look tainted and stained
And are shut, now…. the close seasons here!