IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on Green,
If you can trust Hamer when all men doubt him,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
For a mere 15 seconds on the Football League show
Or being called lucky, don't believe in luck,
And yet don't boast too much, nor feel too low:
If you can deal with "our away support is S***" comments and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Massives - nor lose the common touch,
if neither Spanners nor Stripy Nigels can hurt you,
If all fans count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving season
With 46 games of distance run,
Yours is the Championship and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Charlton fan, my son!
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Comments
Someone waves and says hello to you at the ground, shouldn't you say hello or at least wave back?
Thou art more nervous and more distressed:
Rough winds do shake the promotion hopes in May,
And summer's buys hath all got in a mess:
Sometime too hot the head of Kermit shines,
And often is the long ball play'd;
And many contentious decisions the ref declines,
Through fear, or lack of decent passes made;
But thy dreams of Bradley scoring will not fade,
Nor our possession of that ball thou desires;
Nor shall Massives brag we wander'st in their shade,
When Jacko's freekicks doth stoke those fires;
So long as Powell can breathe, or his eyes can see,
So long lives our one aim, and this gives life to me.
millwall are blue
Ones going up
and the other is poo..
I think the preferred term is "initiation ceremony" rather than "tea". That's your clique application form to the bottom of the pile.
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
Omar Khayyam
Turf Moor or to The Valley, dear friends, once more;
For a chance to play the ‘Wall and the Nigels instead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a fan
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of whistle blows in our ears,
Then realise the chance to play the Tigers;
Put down the burger, roll up the programme,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Then cheer Red warriors onward to the Amex;
Let Pride park in Portman Road instead
Like the brass cannon; let Red o'erwhelm the Vicarage
As fearfully as maybe in amongst Wolves
O'erhang and jutty are the bellies
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful lager.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest Charlton.
I think the preferred term is "initiation ceremony" rather than "tea". That's your clique application form to the bottom of the pile.
Damn I was so close to getting in I could smell it, still the pile might not be a big one
They fuck you up, your Football team
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in tracksuits and sheepskin coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.
Fan hands on misery to fan.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't support a team yourself.