Twas the night before Newcastle, all quiet at the Lane,
No game tomorrow, all the players had taken a plane.
The shirts were hung on the pegs with care,
The fans all hoping, Jenas wasn’t bound to have a ‘mare.
The squad were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of victory, danced in their heads.
Andre ironed his suit, combed his hair into a parting,
Tossing a coin over whether, Defoe or Kane would be starting.
When out on the Toon, there arose such a clatter,
Dos Santos desperate to spring from bed, to see what was the matter.
Away to the window, he flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters, seeking drunken Geordie gash.
With a portuguese coach, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment, he was better than the previous prick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!
“Now Lennon! now, Rafa! now, Gareth and Gylfi!
On, Vertonghen! On, Sandro! on, on Younes and Bradley!
To the top of the league! to the top of the table!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away rumours we’re not able!”
They dressed all in white, from their head to their foot,
Anxiety growing, in the pit of their gut.
A bundle of beers, flung in their travel pack,
The season was starting, now no turning back.
Andre’s eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
Last season forgotten, he was now ready for a proper go.
The stump of a pen he held tight in his teeth,
Circles and arrows, scribbled on a board underneath.
No chancing like the old man, who had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, now to be enjoyed by all, at night on the telly!
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
But the wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had something to dread.
The chairman spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
Filled all the balance sheets, but then turned with a jerk.
He was laying his finger aside of his nose, a wry smile coming to fray,
And giving a nod, up came Adebayor, Moutinho and Llorente!
He sprang to his keyboard, to the fans, gave the news,
And away they all tweeted, the panic, but a ruse.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
“Come On You Spurs to all, and to all a good-night!”