The Welsh Premiership table makes some pretty awful reading
We’re bottom of the league, the season’s hopes are disappearing,
We lost again – 2-0 at home – a terrible result
But I’ve got a confession, boys: I think it’s all my fault.
The Stjarnan game, the Euro trip, I’d booked to fly abroad
But on the eve of getting there an illness struck me hard.
My travel plans were thwarted, Lord, but I just couldn’t fly
We lost 4-0 without my voice to help the team apply.
At home the Iceland lads came down to drink in the Belle Vue.
They passed around the vodka shots; I’d had more than a few,
But when we started to the game there were still glasses full
It’s bad luck to leave alcohol like that; it’s terrible.
We won in the League Cup! Oh Joy! The season was on track!
The next game’s venue – England, on a plastic piece of crap,
2-0 the score – we lost of course, we never seem to win
Against the franchise; still, who cares? Those bastards mean nothing.
But Monday came, Newtown again; this time was not the same
It was too sunny; I’d forgot to bring a pair of shades.
I couldn’t see, that’s what it was, and three goals was the cost
Without my lucky Turkey hat, and that is why we lost.
An Aber game is usually an excuse for a laugh,
Away we go down winding roads, with beers in our bags.
This time, a Friday night? By Zeus – I just couldn’t attend.
We shipped two goals, then fought back for a 3-3 in the end.
So not the best; but not the worst; some unease at our start -
A 2-1 versus Cefn in the cup gave us some heart –
And then, another Friday game – big spending Airbus next
They had us off 2-1. But I was wearing the wrong kecks.
Rhyl was worse – oh God help me – 2-0 up at half-time
Somehow we lost; 3-2 the score. But the fault was all mine.
I was at home, watching on TV, tucked up with the flu,
My lemsip Cofi-yellow. And we know what that can do.
Prestatyn next. Another lot we really ought to beat;
A nothing side; a mini-Rhyl, a team we should defeat.
I must admit again here to my culpability;
I didn’t have my lucky pie –we drew the game 3-3.
Four days went past; Prestatyn once more in the league's own cup
Where our form had been decent; it had kept the spirits up.
But Christ Almighty, I fucked it up; I’m sorry of it still.
I didn’t have a lucky piss: we lost the game one nil.
The Friday next – another Friday, our unlucky night –
We were a goal to nil up then out went all the floodlights.
For fuck’s sake: everything was going really, badly wrong;
I’m sorry, boys, it’s my fault: I had unlucky trons.
October dawned. No wins, two points: officially bad form,
The kind of sequence of results that sends teams dropping down.
Me? I blame myself for this: a home loss to Carmarthen,
I’d not walked down my lucky way; was driven by my father.
Port Talbot – on a Saturday – shock horror! What is next?
A 2-0 loss, that’s what. A result that left us all vexed.
But it was only me that knows why that one went to shit:
My lucky shirt was in the wash so I couldn’t wear it.
Cefn at home. Another goddamned Friday fucking night.
Another chance for City though to start putting it right.
0-0 on 88 so muggins here, he checks the time
We lose one nil. It’s my fault: I’d committed the crime.
Finally, October ends, at home to Connah’s Quay.
Yep, Friday night again: this really starts to grate on me.
No surprise here: we lose 2-0 and I can take no further.
I had no cash so couldn’t get my lucky Big Les Burger.
So Nev, and Dilwyn, Gwyn and Pegler, Citizens and fans
I’m sorry for the bad luck since the first game’s whistle rang;
Please don’t sue me for lost earnings, it would be uncouth.
(You wouldn’t win in court: I’ve got a fail-safe, lucky suit.)