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FA Cup Poem 2017

Professional schemers hate non-league dreamers, I’m sorry but it’s true.
O’Neill’s Wycombe, strutting like peacocks, hey Chelmsford, hey Hitchin it’s over for you.
But three years later at Basingstoke, there are terrible scenes from terrible blokes
Hampshire heroes, a shootout thriller, Gregory’s already on the phone to Villa

In 99 it’s Oxford City, where the dons are hot and the girls aren’t pretty
Fire on the hemisphere, sick in the gob, everyone thinks it’s an inside job
Harrow Borough at home in the year 2000, Barry Silkman is on for the cash
A mockery, a shambles, a geriatric crime, there goes the spirit of the game in a flash

Hayes away on the telly, Andy Rammell a monster, Darren Currie in his slow motion prime
The Friday night lights show Sanchez glowering, planning endless aesthetic crimes
Oxford United at home in 2006, bring out your M40 vinyl
Such a shame for the minnows to lose 2-1 in what remains their only cup final

AFC Wimbledon crushed in 2008, we’ll never be bested by a non-league punk
But three weeks later, we lose at Eastwood, the good, the bad and the drunk
Hayes and Yeading and Chelmsford and Yeading, we’re better at passing, we’re better at heading
But then comes Fleetwood and they’re having party, we’ve got Grant Basey they’ve Jamie Vardy

Since then we’ve recovered, with Barnet and Halifax and Stourbridge all easily beaten
But November brings fear, the old creeping fear, via the classic non-league cup meeting
Solihull Moors: a club younger than Facebook, a club younger than Bebo and Twitter
Forget memes, forget dreams, we just need 11 characters, and also, our players are fitter.


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