channys6thswan
Lingers Long On Cank Street
Stop all the clocks, switch off the mobile phone,
Mute that Alan Smith, and Martin Keown,
Silence the clappers, muffle Jobber’s drum
Let’s bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes trail pennants overhead
For yes, Pleat Is Out, yet our hearts still feel dead,
Drape black scarves upon each and every seat,
No need for free donuts now, our grief is complete.
Citeh will always be our North, South, East and West,
Our working week and our Matchday fest,
Our noon, our midnight, our banter, our song;
We thought our joy would last for a bit more: we were wrong.
Our so-called stars are not wanted now: ship out every one;
Pack up the Rudkin and pay off the Whelan;
Padlock Seagrave, and sweep away all dead wood;
Yes, one day that caant Rodgers shall at last be forgotten,
Yet the desert he made of our dreams, our mighty club,
Never should.
Mute that Alan Smith, and Martin Keown,
Silence the clappers, muffle Jobber’s drum
Let’s bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes trail pennants overhead
For yes, Pleat Is Out, yet our hearts still feel dead,
Drape black scarves upon each and every seat,
No need for free donuts now, our grief is complete.
Citeh will always be our North, South, East and West,
Our working week and our Matchday fest,
Our noon, our midnight, our banter, our song;
We thought our joy would last for a bit more: we were wrong.
Our so-called stars are not wanted now: ship out every one;
Pack up the Rudkin and pay off the Whelan;
Padlock Seagrave, and sweep away all dead wood;
Yes, one day that caant Rodgers shall at last be forgotten,
Yet the desert he made of our dreams, our mighty club,
Never should.
