to all those going through the bins
to all those who sang long and hard deep into the night;
to all those who dared to dream;
to all those who still dream;
to all those with their lights on full beam
to Dickov and the Goat;
to all who cheered themselves hoarse at Wrexham and Stoke;
to all who ran the gauntlet at Huddersfield and Wolverhampton;
to all those on the pop at Meadow Lane
who felt the joy and felt the pain,
to all those on the roof of the Trent Navigation Inn
to those downstairs living in sin
to the throngs that greeted Charlton out on the pitch
to those still rolling around in some muddy ditch
to all those who sang louder the worse it got;
cheering and clapping every missed shot
to all those who renewed for Division Three
when City were buried deep, all out at sea.
to the 32,134 that turned out for Blackpool;
to the fans who never were and never will be
to all those on the InterCity to Newcastle;
to all those in the minibus to Swansea
to all those hitch-hiking to Plymouth
to all those on the boat to Bilbao and in the van to Enschede
to those that never came back.
to those who left it slack at the back
to all those in Basel and Copenhagen, Liege and Santander
to all those on the fishing smack to the Faroes
to all those in the double decker at Lokeren;
to all those enoying a Gaudino drive,
to all those who are dead and those mostly still alive,
to all those who empathise, sympathise, chastise, romanticise;
to all those who tried to understand despite everything;
to all those who support United, Everton, Leeds, Chelsea but put up with us still,
to admin and directors, boardrooms and the old bill;
to Rodney Marsh and to Tony Towers
to Glauber Berti and cartel-busting Robinho
to Manuel Akanji, the rock of the Alps
to all those who have caught the bug
to all those that offered a hug;
to all those in ski hats, Celtic and Rangers,
to those oblivious to omnipresent dangers,
to doing the Poznan and showing your back
to shouting for Mel to get the sack.
to Mike Lester and Denis Leman,
to able bodies and David Seaman.
to Mark E Smith and Bernard Manning
to all the years that we are spanning
to Frank Sidebottom's head
to things best not said
to Nicklas Jensen's unerring left foot
and Lee Peacocks bag of soot.
to Scott Carson, the eternal sub
if ever he plays some will blub
to the goalden days under Brian Horton
to present day, add a nought on.
to all those who send text messages when we lose
to all those who have it in your hearts to say "come on Blues"
just to make us happy
to all those with logic and compassion
and to those that prefer fabrication and fairy tales
to all those writing, thinking, posting, tweeting;
to all those fans of asterisks and brackets
to those whose matchday grub comes out of packets
to all those who were there and will be there
to all those who have watched City at Wembley
to all those who knees didn't go all trembly
to all those who wish they could be there
to all those new to the throng
to the rousing words in our song
to all those who can never go again
to all those wizened, cracked, broken and chastened
to all those for whom hope is the killer
to those for whom the midweek match is the sacred filler
to Paolo Wanchope and Kevin Horlock
to Micky Horswill and Geoff Hammond
to Ilkay Gundogan and his magic feet
to those who juggle with the balance sheet
to the unsung heroes and the bottle washers
to the foot soldiers and water carriers
to all those who find a treble bittersweet
to all those that find it quite a feat
to those that dare not look
To our captain of captains Tony Book
to the kitmen and the carpert cleaners;
to the poets, drinkers and truth gleaners
to Sheikh Mansour and his Lamborghini
to those whose funds only stretch to a rubber dinghy
to all those prematurely thinning
to the change from losing to permanent winning
to Nigel de Jong and Mario Balotelli
to guvnors and young guvnors
to all those who have played like we dream
to all those who have dreamed
to all those who have had a nightmare
to Jamie Pollock and Neil Heaney, to Jason van Blerk and Paul Beesley
to all those for whom a Blue Moon rising sends a little shivver down the spine;
to all those in the Maine Road ticket line
to all those who climbed the fences at Villa Park;
to hail Bond's heroes till after dark.
to all those who saw next to nothing at London Road,
to Tommy Booth for baring the load;
to all those who watched six go into the Norwich net
and John Bond's fall, the dozy get;
to all those who clapped Big Mal across the turf
to those who knew Mackenzie's worth
to all those who sank with Ricky Villa;
to Paul Power and the Goodison mud
to all those whose hearts and limbs went thud
to Bobby Mac in goals
to David James upfront
to Neil Young and Arthur Mann, to Malcolm Allison and John Benson;
to Roy Paul and Don Revie, to Genial Joe and Tommy Caton;
to Whiteys nap hand, to Quinny and Lakey;
to Roy the physio and Beanie the horse.
to all those who waved a banana and sang Blue Moon;
to all those who cheered in the rain in the Prater;
to all those who took a punch on the nose at Barnsley
to all those asked the time at Millwall
to those who shed a tear when City win
and those carrying FA Cups made of tin
to all those who played on through the rain;
to Makin and Wardle and times of pain
to all those who watched four goals go in on Tyneside;
to Stan Gibson and his pitchfork;
to Bert Trautmann and the never-say-die spirit;
to Buzzer, Franny and Colin the King;
to the indomitable spirit of Pablo Zabaleta
to those who have walked Claremont Road;
where litter flew and wind blowed
to those who have raised a glass at the City Gates;
to those who've seen sixes, sevens and eights
to Kevin Reeves and Paul Sugrue;
to Bill Taylor and Peter Swales;
to Bernard Halford and Terry Cook;
To all those who dared not look
To straight-faced Ron Saunders
to Phil Neal and his cure for constipation
to all those who have risked food poisoning,
to those who drank too much
to all those hemmed in at Valley Parade
to last minute winners out of the shade
to all those who entered enemy territory;
to the guy who jumped on Keith Curle at Old Trafford;
to quiet Mel and his repartee, to football genius Alan Ball;
who brought us swiftly to our deepest fall
to Uwe Rosler and Steffan Karl;
to our Asa.
to all those who played bit parts;
to all those who scored off the far post;
to all those that thought we could coast
to those that put 5 in the United net;
to those that made it six
to those that thought the sun would never shine
to those whose memories are a gold mine
to those that saw Dickov slide in the rain;
to those that stayed and those that left and those that turned back and came again
to Bondy, Jimmy Frizz and Big Billy Mac
to Georgi Kinkladze and Murtaz Shelia;
to all those who watched Kernaghan, McNaught and Davidson and still raised a cheer;
to the legendary 8,000 living in fear;
to all those that sank 12 pints with Bobby Mac and Gerry Gow
and lived to tell the tale, don't know how.
to those that swayed on the Kippax, bawled in the Platt Lane, chanted in the North Stand and launched pies in the Main Stand;
to all on board the Coaches from Prestwich and Whitefield
to those that got on the pitch at Loftus Road
to Binman Bob and Gordon Davies
to Wonderwall and whoever saves us
to all those who saw the glory of Wrexham and the Bernabeu
to Captain Kompany, here's to you
to Freddie Pye and Trumann's For Steel
to Kia Joorabchian and his dodgy deal
to Joshua Parlby and to Chris Bird
to Joey Barton, the graceless turd.
to all those who craned their necks, asked who it was, smiled, tutted and shook their heads;
to all those who saw Dennis fly at Wembley;
to those who had a surreptitious leak;
to those who dared not even peek
to those who wet themselves;
to those who hung on and have hung on until now;
to those who never gave up;
to those who came back;
to those who can't take anymore;
to those who went away;
to those who are there in spirit;
to all those who will not see what happens next;
to those who don’t know how long they’ve got
to all those who have seen enough already;
to those who will take what comes
to all those who packed the boozers at West Brom and Watford, Carlisle and Nottingham;
to those rubbing their hands and eyes at Gay Meadow and The Shay;
with watery eyes from what was on display.
to all those for whom Górnik Zabrze means something;
to all those raising the forest roof in Apeldoorn
to Peter Barnes and to Dennis Tueart;
to Denis and his back-heel;
And to how that made you feel.
to Barney Daniels; to Stuart Lee
to all those who like a bit of history
to Gerald Sinstadt, David Coleman and Barry Davies at the mic
to Brian Moore and Motty who took the celestial hike;
to all those on the quays in Porto and in the cold of Red Square
to those on Rioja in Plaza Mayor with heads still bare
to Mr Manchester City Michael Doyle;
who used Lou Macari as his foil
to Dom Sullivan and Gordon Dalziel
to Barry Silkman and Dave Wiffill
to all those with too many blue garments;
to all those who refuse to wear red
to all those hiding in the shed
Until it's over
to all those who refuse to remove their lucky underpants;
to those with their sleeves rolled up
to those with a clenched fist
to those beginning to list
to those with a welcoming embrace
to all those in their match worn gear
to all those who walk in fear
to all those who don't really know how to cope,
to all those hearts without a hope
to all those who don't understand why we do it;
to all those who have spent their last pound on a ticket;
to all those at the Full Members Cup and the Auto Windscreens;
to all those at Darlington and York;
to Edin Dzeko and galloping Kolarov
to Kevin de Bruyne, the Zico of Gent
and to young Jack Grealish heaven sent
to Johnny Marr and Elvis the seagull
to things illicit and not quite legal;
to The Elephant of Bondoukou
to all those who fret and worry
to those who take it in their stride
to little El Mago and his pirouettes
and to Demichelis' tottering steps
to all those who keep coming rain or shine
to all those drinking red wine on the Bakerloo Line
to all those on the port in Coimbra
to Big Joe and to Helen and her bell
to those who City have left a shell
to all those Kings of the Kippax
to those with memories of Maine Road
to all those in 93rd minute limbo v QPR
to all those climbing the steps at the Camp Nou
to all who took in the mighty view
to those neutrals who will us on
to those who couldn't give a shit
to those who can take it and those who cannot.
to Bernardo Silva and Leroy Sane
to Gary Owen and Tommy Booth,
to all those memories that grate and soothe
to fedoras and ski hats
to shellsuits and flat caps
to those that prefer the simple bar scarf
to those that preferred to streak
to those having a very public leak
to those on the hard shoulder
to those left in the lay-by
to those climbing lamp posts in Sittard
to those on the frikadelle in Dortmund
to those throwing up in Gelsenkirchen
to the slowest bus driver in Europe all
who brought us to the Altstadt after the shutters fall
to all those on the gin
to those living in sin
to those who smell of curry
to those who can only worry
to Ron Healy and Eric Nixon
to Kevin Ellegaard and John Burridge
to ginger Keith and Daniel Sturridge
to Ederson Morais and his smiley face
to all those boots we're not fit to lace
to Stephen Ireland's dear old gran
and to Elano's blast and long range slam
to big Richard Dunne and the year of the ton.
to those who Ricky Holden's pace did stun
to clocks that run to 93:20
and to those who thought just survival was plenty.
to the Brightwells, the Morleys and the Futchers
to those that hang around training for a butchers
to Glyn Pardoe and Kenny Clements
to Riyad Mahrez and his twinkling feet
to Sergio and Carlitos Argentinean neat
to those who tweaked muscles, broke bones, cracked heads
to those that surged forward, to those that chased back.
to Fernandinho's defence, midfield and attack.
to those that didn't make it all the way back
to those that felt rain and to those in the sun
to basking in the Bournemouth glee, it's in the can
to taking the hills and buildng up a tan
to all those freezing on the Scottie Road
to any prepared to bear the load
to those packed in times less lean
to those in space for the Autowindscreen
to all Full Members and Simod Cuppers
to all who were there when we were on our uppers.
to Richard Jobson and Spencer Prior
to those that speak truth and shun the liar
To the class and style of Roberto Mancini
To this charming man Senor Pellegrini
To Frank Clark and his crummy guitar
whose flat notes did burn and char
To Jamie Paradise with his 3 out of ten
To Bennett, Dave and Thatcher, Ben
To Foden Phil of Stockport town
To Pep the king
Who still makes us sing
To his watery eyes
That make us sigh
to the words that galvanise and purr
and all those loins that he does stir
To all those at Elland Road
To all those whose seeds were sowed.
To Gerry Creaney and the law of averages
To Colin Viljoen and Micky Channon
To all those shunning the Liverpool slant
the well worn bullshit and desperate kant
To those that gave us credit and those that pulled the plug
To those that can still read Alyson Rudd
To Roger Palmer and Nicolas Anelka
To Derek Potter and John Bean
To the Lees Bradbury, Mills and Francis
To the Summer bee and the winter wasp
To all those that count the cost.
To all those that can’t afford
To those that live like a lord
To David Phillips and Derek Parlane
To all those that felt no shame
To Kevin Keegan's mighty men
to Berkovic and Ali, a proper gem
To Neil McNab, to Willie Donachie
To Dave Watson and Mick McCarthy
to headers that fly
right into the sky
to the balls that soared and those that popped
to those that fibbed and photoshopped
To Bramall Lane and Valley Parade
To Paul Stewart and the flashing blade
to Joao Cancelo, Rony Lopes and the Benfica gang
to all those that bawled and sang
to 12 seconds of cup final stress
and Ilkay's majesterial caress
To those that sniffed and those that smirked
To those that doubted and those that hurt
To all those that put sweat on the shirt
To Steppi Stepanovic Come on You Blues
To the exhortations you choose to use
To chicken balti and warm Lamot
To Jesus Navas who had the lot
To those in the sun of Seville
To those in the rain of Vienna
To Fiona Richmond in the bath
To Groenendijk and having a laugh
To Peter Reid and Clive Allen
to Nicky Reid and Clever Trevor
To Trevor Morley and Raheem Sterling
To Gareth Barry and Gareth Taylor
To Nelly Young and Alan Oakes
To Liam and Noel and other blokes
To National Express and British Rail
To Tom Garner through the wind and hail
to blow
To Kakhaber Tskhadadze and all the other letters of the alphabet
To Gordon Dalziel and to Arthur Mann
To Les McDowall and the Revie Plan
To Paula and Lucas and little Sam
to Greenalls and Grunhalle
and the difference in between
to the best bloody team we have ever seen
to Rico and Cole and those coming through
to those that ensure that the future is blue
to McAdams and Hayes, Fagan and Sear
and to a past that led to the present so clear
to Buckley and Kelechi and Sheron and Mee
talents that struggled and fell from the tree
to those on the bus, the tram, the train
or trudging back to town in the driving rain
to Barry Silkman and Terry Park
whose bite failed to exceed his bark
to that Terry Phelan
and the Dissa Pointon
to Martin Petrov's magic left foot
and to all those that didn't make the cut
to the Octopus and the carthorse
that carried the weight
to Stuart Pearce and the goals that came in a spate
to all those crossing the bridge
and those up in the air
to those on their own
and those way down there
to dark thoughts of failure
and to emerging to light
to long years of danger
to a long way from fright
to those on the ferries crossing high seas
and those on foot can do as they please
to legs bandy, crooked and long
to those on frees or going for a song
to Sun Jihai and the times that we had
to Alf Grey and Clattenburg and everything sad
to shaking your head and saying that's it
to coming next week and feeling a tit
to Maine Road puddles and Etihad baize
where frogs did swim and GOATS graze
to the steps of the Kippax, our ancestral home
to wherever is next that we shall roam
to Nathan Ake and all that is cheap
to Haaland and Daley for pockets more deep
to the staff that prepare and the reserves that wait
to those of us struggling not to be late
to the Kippax loos
to the scoreboard fuse
to the Main Stand roof
and to the Swales truth
to Loftus Road kebabs and Coventry baps
to the girls that ate them and to the chaps
to Julian Alvarez and Stevie Kinsey
to scoring made easy in off the shinsy
to all those that worshipped in old St Mark's church
and to those whose adulation from Gorton did lurch
to Hyde Road and beyond
to balls that cross lines and to those that don't
to goals that will be given and others that won't
to the long legs of John Stones
and to the skills that he hones
to Sporting Intelligence and the Talksport phones
to drip doctors sorting poor Samir affliction
to all those nursing a bit of an addiction
to Rodney and Bojinov and the parties we had
to the fireworks and the allergies that made us feel bad
to hearing the roar as you walk down the road
to the beat of your heart that couldn't be slowed
to those driving the bus and those not on the drink
to those sipping their way over the brink
to Belmadi and Abdoun, Djamel on both counts
to Ousmane Dabo who with Joey did flounce
to those that holler and those that cry
to those that snigger and look to the sky
to divine intervention and the lap of the Gods
to playing time out and hating the sods
to Ken Barnes and Earl Barrett
to Beckfords and Alex and all of their kin
who fought their corner despite colour of skin
to the Bowyers and the Boyers
and to the original sin
to standing and staring
to slumped in disblief
to the scorers and the passers and the work of the thief
to burgers and bangers and things wrapped in bread
to all those who saw City about to be dead
to Wembley and Porto and places of esteem
to Vienna and Manchester, the cream of the cream
to all those still here
to all going strong
to all those who fear
the going to be long
to W Meredith who kicked up a storm
and big Tommy Johnson who never lost form
to Joe Mercer's aces, young and in prime
to managers and coaches out of their time
to Redmond and Moulden and Crompton and Scott
and the day versus Huddersfield when the goals did not stop
to those that waved bananas and didn't give a toss
to Shinton and Robinson and big David Cross
to comb-over Swales, the merchant of gloom
to demos and mobs and harbingers of doom
to good days and rough days and days that end sad
to all those that came despite being called mad
to those with style and those with a riposte
to the lads wearing Fred Perry and those in Lacoste
to those ripping it up and those fast asleep
to the experts that gave us not one little peep
to those at Wembley to see United fall
to all who answered the blue clarion call
to those in Turkey who are breaking the banks
with understanding others still owed some thanks
to doubles and trebles and dreams in the night
to troubles and bubbles and things that take fright
to UEFA and CAS and those FA bigwigs
a figo for that if you like figs
to those in customs and stuck in a queue
to those that vote Brexit in spite of the view
to Alty and Sale and stops in between
to all of the places we've ever seen
to the Men in Black at Colleen's gate
to the maestro wearing the eternal number 8
to vodka chasers and Malibu and cokes
to Georgio Kinkladze those different strokes
to Danny Hoekman and Stanley Bowles
to all those sardines that still swim in shoals
to Charvet and Sibierski and all things French
to Neil Custis placing Foden on the subs bench
to those in ticket queues in the rain
circling the North Stand in endless pain
to the teams that we played when we were shite
and the grand masters now that have to take flight
to Northampton and Gillingham where we packed out
to Bayern and Schalke where we now shout
to Peter Gardner and the Evening News
to every scribe who gave us our dues
to all those who saw Darius score
to those that could have done with a little bit more
to Ruben Dias, whose mam and dad
are happy and gay and not always sad
to Steve McManaman and his pointy arm
to all of his shots that did absolutely no harm
to Inchy Heath and Marky Ward
to tiny people who never scored
to chunky strikers and whispy wingers
to Gary Megson's midfield zingers
To Burnden Park and White Hart Lane
to the day we score at Spurs again
to Boniek and to Messi and to all in between
to the gloss and the glamour that gives sheen
to Eidos and Phillips and Brother and Saab,
to every Guardian writer who offered a barb
to those wearing blue trilbies on public roads
to chippy teas, curries and food that explodes
to those that sing and those that moan
to those for whom time really has flown
to the fanzine sellers and the music makers
to the go-getters, the movers, the shakers.
to Thaksin and Kaldoon and men from afar
to free chicken satay and the blessed early bar
to Kyle Walker and the goalkeeper's glove
and to blessed Rodri, when push came to shove
to the Istanbul crossbar strong and stout
and to all those still able to shout
To to all those who breathe and weep
and live and sleep
Manchester City FC
to all those who dared believe one day the sun would shine;
You played your part. Now all is fine
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