In the fanfare seasons when we get spoiled,

delight openly weeps.

A change from the usual stress attacks,

brought on by a lack of clean sheets.

 

Not a tin pot, or F.A. Cup,

or division won in years.

Disappointment sits, stares, and lingers

behind sunken red eyes and blue tears.

 

Elegantly euphoric promotions,

and grandiose upsets,

take centre stage with stellar players

who we’ve wept for once they’ve left.

 

Comedic defence and bovine strikers

bring wicked cries of laughter.

This we accept is who we truly are,

and it’s for us to rightly remember.

 

Like asking an ocean to dismiss

some of the rivers which bring it life.

If we can’t cry with joy and pain,

then the stars might as well ignore the night.