Come Coronavirus, end the league!
This land has lfc fatigue.
End the red s**** hype blitzkrieg.
Swarm over, Death!
Come, virus, halt this foul parade,
No “witty” kopite banners made,
No full kit w****r promenade,
Tinned beer, bad breath.
When “nineteen, lad” is all they’ll say,
It’s apposite that we should pray
For such elation as the day
When Stevie fell.
And should they splutter “bitter, lad”,
Look on the times that we have had.
It's not our fault that we are mad;
We’ve tasted hell.
Let Fanta scruffs remain indoors
And piss stained red kits stay in drawers
And tourists not defile our shores
In red tat clad,
And spare our streets from thick red smoke
And kopites publicly who’ll stroke
Their tiny manhoods “for a joke";
Just banter, lad.
Obliterate them if you can,
The profits of that stinking klan
From telly clapping alehouse fans
and full kit sales.
Come, Coronavirus, end the league!
Though kopites claim conspiracee,
Bring such relief that we might see
The world exhale.
www.theguardian.com
