The Rime of the Ancient Red

It is an ancient football club,
And stoppeth one in three,
“Pray, tell me, friend, what cursed club
Has sunk so dreadfully?”

The red flag once flew proud and high,
Where glory filled the air;
But now a pall of shame descends
On Old Trafford's despair.

'Twas once the pride of all the land,
The terror of the field;
Now every time they touch the ball,
The opposition need not yield.

The season opened full of hope,
The fans proclaimed their might;
But by the time the autumn came,
They'd lost the will to fight.

“God save thee, ancient football club!
What madness grips thy men?”
“They've spent three hundred million pounds
And somehow got worse again!”

The keeper gazed into the mist,
The defenders wandered blind;
The midfield passed the ball around,
But left their brains behind.

And lo! A striker, paid a king's ransom,
Approached the open goal;
He struck the ball with all his might—
It landed in the Dole.

The manager stood upon the touchline,
His countenance grew pale;
For even he could scarcely bear
The spectacle so frail.

The Stretford End, once loud with song,
Now murmured through the gloom;
For every game at Old Trafford
Resembled a funeral room.

And down, down, down went United,
Where no great champions tread;
The mighty Reds of Manchester,
With Championship in their stead.

Then came the final dreadful day,
The table laid bare;
The points had fled, the goals had dried,
And doom was everywhere.

The final whistle shrieked its death,
The faithful bowed their heads;
For Manchester, once crowned in gold,
Was numbered with the dead.

The commentators spoke in hushed tones,
The pundits wept with glee;
And Gary Neville choked upon
His own hypocrisy.

Sir Alex sat in silence,
His chewing gum grew cold;
He'd built an empire mighty once,
Now watched it turn to mould.

The Glazers counted out their cash,
And smiled upon the shore;
For though the club had sunk like stone,
Their pockets held much more.

And City, dressed in sky-blue silk,
Did raise a mocking cheer;
For never had their neighbours' fall
Been such a glorious year.

And down, down, down went United,
The fallen kings of red;
From Champions League to Barnsley away,
And Blackpool in their stead.

“Now hear me, friend, and mark my words,
For this is not the end;
They'll sack another manager,
And blame another friend.

They'll buy a lad for ninety mil,
Declare him world-class gold;
He'll spend three months upon the bench,
Then leave when he grows old.

They'll promise Europe once again,
They'll speak of Fergie's reign;
Then lose to someone in the rain
By one goal in the rain.

And when the mighty Old Trafford stands
Beneath the lowering sky,
The gulls shall circle overhead
And wonder where the crowds have gone by.”

The ancient fan released my sleeve,
His eyes were dark with dread:
“Remember, friend, the greatest fall
Is yet to come,” he said.

Then slowly turned and walked away,
Beneath the Manchester moon;
And from the distant stadium came
The sound of The Championship Tune.

For he must laugh, and laugh again,
Who sees the fallen Reds;
Who once demanded crowns of gold,
Now begs for mid-table stead.

And still the red flag hangs above
The ground where legends trod;
A monument to squandered wealth,
And football's cruelest joke.

“Glory, glory Man United…”

The mariner then smiled and said:

“Aye. Glory's gone. And so, it seems, are they.”