Wednesday, 9 March 2016

On the scrapheap

Toiling in the lower leagues,
Division two, division three.
A stadium that needs repair,
Money spent that isn't there.

Players wages put on hold,
No hot water, only cold.
Floodlights dimmed to cut the cost,
Of one too many games you've lost.

Administrators pull no punches,
Cut out all directors lunches.
Sack all staff who needn't be,
Upon this sinking ship at sea.

The Conference is calling loud,
You can't escape the falling crowd,
Players heads drop straight away,
As once again, it's not their day.

Excuses fill the boss's mind,
As bits of luck, he tries to find.
But no star player's shining through,
for no one's borrowed, no one's new.

And on the final day but one,
Your season ends as it begun.
Defeat, despair, no concentration,
Finally, your relegation.

The groundsman switches off the lights,
And bitter fans cry into pints.
The club, it's heart and soul is shattered,
For them, this love, is all that mattered.


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