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And now the end is...
Alistair Wilkinson
1 February 2010
We've had a merry bitchmas which wasn't so
melon farming and was even a bit Woods
charming. Trying to stop the hype, trying to
kick the shite; on your exercise bike! said
some, and not just for fun. I tried not to listen,
tried not to read. Just wanted them to glisten,
just wanted them to bleed!
Town and Christmas go together like cider
and solitude; out came the new boss attitude,
change and change ruining the little bit of
aptitude. From cautious optimism to plain
pessimism to defeat. To deceit. Turns out I
lied on the telly, right before the turning
point when we came up lame: that fucking
Cheltenham game.
If
you
ca
n't
be
at
t
h
a
t
Lie to me. Tell me we're good. Tell me we
should. Tell me I can say should. Lie to me.
We shouldn't be here. We don't deserve this.
Buffy'll give me a kiss. Lie to me. Tell me we'll
be okay. Tell me tomorrow and tell me
yesterday. Somebody tell me we'll be okay.
There's a Vale fan to miss us there's everyone
else to diss us. Will anyone care when we slip
to the Blue Square? No one outside the town;
no one inside the town; just a few of us in the
Town, just a few of us who still might frown.
Don't wanna go, don't wanna know. I'm
afraid of the dark and I'm afraid for our Park.
We'll be kickin' and screamin' and not waking
up, not dreamin'. No chance, we'll be awake,
so very awake. We'll be so sober we'll be dry
like a road kill hung long and high.
And then...
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