The Welsh Premiership table makes some
pretty awful reading
We’re bottom of the league, the season’s
hopes are disappearing,
We lost again – 2-0 at home – a terrible
result
But I’ve got a confession, boys: I think it’s
all my fault.
The Stjarnan game, the Euro trip, I’d
booked to fly abroad
But on the eve of getting there an illness
struck me hard.
My travel plans were thwarted, Lord,
but I just couldn’t fly
We lost 4-0 without my voice to help
the team apply.
At home the Iceland lads came down to drink
in the Belle Vue.
They passed around the vodka shots; I’d had
more than a few,
But when we started to the game there were
still glasses full
It’s bad luck to leave alcohol like that;
it’s terrible.
We won in the League Cup! Oh Joy! The
season was on track!
The next game’s venue – England, on a
plastic piece of crap,
2-0 the score – we lost of course, we never
seem to win
Against the franchise; still, who cares?
Those bastards mean nothing.
But Monday came, Newtown again; this time
was not the same
It was too sunny; I’d forgot to bring a
pair of shades.
I couldn’t see, that’s what it was, and
three goals was the cost
Without my lucky Turkey hat, and that is
why we lost.
An Aber game is usually an excuse for a
laugh,
Away we go down winding roads, with beers
in our bags.
This time, a Friday night? By Zeus – I just
couldn’t attend.
We shipped two goals, then fought back for
a 3-3 in the end.
So not the best; but not the worst; some
unease at our start -
A 2-1 versus Cefn in the cup gave us some heart
–
And then, another Friday game – big spending
Airbus next
They had us off 2-1. But I was wearing the
wrong kecks.
Rhyl was worse – oh God help me – 2-0 up at
half-time
Somehow we lost; 3-2 the score. But the
fault was all mine.
I was at home, watching on TV, tucked up with
the flu,
My lemsip Cofi-yellow. And we know what
that can do.
Prestatyn next. Another lot we really
ought to beat;
A nothing side; a mini-Rhyl, a team we
should defeat.
I must admit again here to my culpability;
I didn’t have my lucky pie –we drew the
game 3-3.
Four days went past; Prestatyn once more in
the league's own cup
Where our form had been decent; it had kept
the spirits up.
But Christ Almighty, I fucked it up;
I’m sorry of it still.
I didn’t have a lucky piss: we lost the game one nil.
The Friday next – another Friday, our
unlucky night –
We were a goal to nil up then out went all
the floodlights.
For fuck’s sake: everything was going
really, badly wrong;
I’m sorry, boys, it’s my fault: I had unlucky trons.
October dawned. No wins, two points:
officially bad form,
The kind of sequence of results that sends teams
dropping down.
Me? I blame myself for this: a home loss to
Carmarthen,
I’d not walked down my lucky way; was
driven by my father.
Port Talbot – on a Saturday – shock horror!
What is next?
A 2-0 loss, that’s what. A result that left
us all vexed.
But it was only me that knows why that one
went to shit:
My lucky shirt was in the wash so I couldn’t
wear it.
Cefn at home. Another goddamned Friday
fucking night.
Another chance for City though to start
putting it right.
0-0 on 88 so muggins here, he checks the time
We lose one nil. It’s my fault: I’d
committed the crime.
Finally, October ends, at home to Connah’s
Quay.
Yep, Friday night again: this really starts
to grate on me.
No surprise here: we lose 2-0 and I can
take no further.
I had no cash so couldn’t get my lucky Big
Les Burger.
So Nev, and Dilwyn, Gwyn and Pegler,
Citizens and fans
I’m sorry for the bad luck since the first
game’s whistle rang;
Please don’t sue me for lost earnings, it
would be uncouth.
(You wouldn’t win in court: I’ve got a
fail-safe, lucky suit.)
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