But vegetables won’t up the pace, So destined to play out the race, You take deep breaths and just sit tight, To wait for Saturday’s delight, And when it finally comes around, You feel your feet lift off the ground, So high that you can fly, not walk, You recommence the talk, talk, talk, And spread your

It’s Monday morn, that dreaded day,

With six more nights until we play,

Though only yesterday we won,

The pre-match buzz has been and gone,

But still, for now, it’s all we ask,

For hours in the win we’ll bask,

And talk and talk and talk at length,

Of handbrakes on and mental strength,

Of chances that we didn’t take,

And brittle bones we hope don’t break,

Of changes Wenger didn’t make,

And English hands he didn’t shake,

And talk and talk and talk some more,

Until you get a swollen jaw,

And when you do you’ll type and tweet,

And often wish you’d pressed delete,

But deeper down you feel annoyed,

Inside your heart you sense the void,

And emptiness, and hope for when

It reaches kick-off time again,

And as the talk begins to dry,

From out the corner of your eye,

You spy the bane of every fan,

The-slow-ly-mov-ing-se-cond-hand,

Because, with nothing more to speak,

Each single minute takes a week,

And weeks fill you with so much pain,

You wish for the last game again,

But that game’s gone as you well know,

Which makes the week a touch more slow,

As though you’re plodding down the track,

On old Squillaci’s piggyback,

“Come on, you’ll get there in the end,”

You try to tell your aged friend,

In hope that it will make him quick,

You offer him a carrot stick,

But vegetables won’t up the pace,

So destined to play out the race,

You take deep breaths and just sit tight,

To wait for Saturday’s delight,

And when it finally comes around,

You feel your feet lift off the ground,

So high that you can fly, not walk,

You recommence the talk, talk, talk,

And spread your loving praise online,

For number 10, the falsest 9,

To hope that he won’t go kaput,

You rub a severed rabbit’s foot,

And then it happens, all at once,

We name our team (so do the cunts),

And out they all step on the pitch,

The Em’s fine turf (or just Stoke’s ditch),

While high above in gantry sits,

A range of yapping, useless tits,

Who think because they’ve seen a ball,

That they could train Invincibles!

But down below this matters not,

The round, white thing placed on the spot,

The whistle raised in hand of ref,

The audience takes one last breath,

But rarely do things go to plan,

We fight against them, every man,

But how the mighty often fall,

We lost it by an offside call….

“Fucking ref!!!”