115 charges! Cheats! Empty seats. Typed, chanted, and slung at us like shit.
Where’s your European Cup? One charge and you fucked it up. That feeling when the ball hits the net.
Is this a library? Empty seats on tour. Name your greatest hit.
It’s going to VAR. How much did you pay the referee? The head beaded in sweat.
Where were you when you were shit? Your fans are from London. Remember the first time as you emerged in the Kippax.
Who are you? Small town in Stockport. The away day journey debate.
Programmes, get your programmes. The ruined weekends piled in stacks.
That painful loss. Old Trafford rocking. Swallow me up by eight.
They let us down. Why the fuck are you still here? Football blighted.
Replays of 93:20 Magical cheats! Fresh air or an armchair.
Tension, glorious tension. Squeaky bum time. Love City, hate U****d.
Squashed in at trophy parades. Feels unfair. Just a sack of air.
The Old Black and Green, Steve Moore selling programmes, the Dias stand bouncing.
Editor’s deadline, adverts flowing, whistles blowing, and Abba playing loud.
Winter’s away days over land and sea – and Stretford or Llansantffraid for a trouncing.
The full time shriek and the roar of the faithful crowd.
The hugs with Paul Lake, the ground that did shake, the moments.
Sergio, Silva, and Kompany alongside Lee, Bell, and Summerbee.
Moments we did. Moments we didn’t. The newly built monuments.
Trautmann out-stretched, Bell on a stand, Book End it should be.
Years from now moments in the stands with mates, old and new.
Holding fanzines, that’s where we’ll be: stretching out cheering you.
Don’t go against your own. Play on. Play strong. Play in Blue and White.
But most of all, Boys In Blue Never give in: do it right.
AGAINST THE FLOW OF TRAFFIC - ACTON28.BLOG 