We’re limping along on the crest of a trough

As we make the Champions League;

Where once we were cruising

We now can’t stop losing

In end-of-term fatigue.

We’ve shit on United

And Arsenal;

We’re delighted

We’re limping along on the crest of a trough

As we make the Champions League.

We’ve lost six out of eight of the last games we played

But have still made The Top Four;

We’ve been murder to watch

Not least for old Poch

But we scraped through the back door.

We stuffed the Gunners

United’s also-runners

We’re limping along on the crest of a trough

But we’ve made the League’s Top Four.