A Sob to a Battle Cry

Our season is faltering,
Our title challenge fallen by the wayside,
No longer are we cock of the walk,
Feather's no longer puffed out.

Early season form has vanished,
My early season optimism has vanished,
Situations have been swapped,
With my Ars*nal supporting friends.

Five Fs
The five things most important to me,
Family,
Friends,
Females,
Finances,
Football is the only thing that affects the other 4,
Things need to turn around,
If only for my sake.

Suspicions start to sneak in:
Was it because I wore my Away shirt to a home game?
Have I been wearing my Spurs scarf enough?
Is it the two pairs of red shoes I bought?
Why do I own red socks?

Or I'm there looking for an excuse:
The national press tapping up our manager,
Van der Vaart's fitness,
Bale on the right,
Lennon's hamstring,
Kings's form.

But then I look at the table:
53 points from 28 games,
Third place in the Premier League,
Well clear of Liverpool and Chelsea.
One point is still a gap.

10 games left and 30 points available,
An easier run in than most,
Form is temporary,
Our class will shine through,
Come,
On,
You,
SPURS.