I wrote a little poem to help us march to the 1800th page
What is our team? A play of passion;
Our mirth the music of division;
Our midfielders' passes the tiring-houses be,
Where we are dressed for this short comedy.
Frenkie the judicious sharp spectator is,
That sits and marks still who doth shoot amiss;
Our graves that hide us from the searching sun
Are like drawn curtains when the transfer is done.
Thus march we, complaining and dreaming, to our latest rest,
Only we muppet in earnest – that’s no jest.