roy of the rangers

must be nearly fifty,
looks for trouble,
is a one-man provocation,
wants you to say:
leave it out, mate,
there are kids sitting around here
when he bursts
from his halfway-line seat,
just a speck of nothing to
those away end bouncing supporters but
screaming, a lone lost voice:
fuck off you cunts
you northern cunts, you
shitcunts.

right behind him, I join the songs
of 15,000 others:
his swollen red head
turns:
shout in my ear again, cunt
and I'll fucking lay you out;

we're all rangers