Relegation Blues

Blow the last whistle, make the last pass,
Prevent the groundsman from inspecting the grass.
Silence the cheers and quietly grieve
Open the gates, let the faithful leave.

Let newspaper hacks with heart saddened frown
Scribble the news, we are down.
Put black on the pages of papers we read,
Let match day policemen the funeral lead.

We travelled North, and South, and East and West,
We travelled afar, the lads played their best.
At noon, at midnight, we talked, sang our song,
We thought we’d be safe, we were wrong.

The stars are not wanted now, for sale, everyone
Pack up the kit, put it all away son.
Go away for the summer and sweep out your brain,
For we’ll be back in August, to do it again.

© Alan McKean

It seemed like an appropriate day to reprise this piece.

With apologies to WH Auden