The day that Bostwick left,
‘Twas a living hell,
I was alone and bereft.
But everyone’s replaceable, right?
And through the revolving door,
Came a succession of Bossie-lite
Midfield journeymen, all with a flaw.
Tansey, with more tattoos than ability,
Jimmy Smith, he of the fist pump,
Anthony Grant, no less than a liability,
And Jack Jebb, who gave me the right raving hump.
James Dunne with his pigeon chest,
And somehow our player of the year,
Which perhaps shows we weren’t the best,
And that the end was getting near.
But wait, it’s transfer window deadline day,
And who’s that signing on the dotted line?
Sure to keep the blues at bay,
It’s a lad from Scunnie with the vintage of fine wine.
Jack King’s his name,
Or, if you like, just Jack,
And I’d rather Jack,
Than David Mac,
Or Tansey, Shroot, Grant or Risser,
Heslop, Walton, or Andrew Bond,
And I can’t think of anything that rhymes with Risser,
Which makes me think we were always conned.
But at last, at number 4,
It’s our midfield saviour, Jack King,
And there’s no longer need to be sore,
Just cos Bostwick fucked off to the Posh.
Pam Ayres, 2016