Twas The Night Before The Season

Just in time for Christmas holiday, The United Religion gives you the Manchester United version of Clemens Moore’s “Twas The Night Before The Christmas.”

Twas the night before the season, when all through the stadium
Not a worker was stirring, not even Ferguson.
The kits were hung by the lockers with care,
In hopes that the players soon would be there.

While the supporters made their way to their seats,
Visions of trophies made them dance on their feet.
Finally in my new shirt and United cap,
Having just recovered from my off-season nap.

When out on the pitch there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the seat to see what was the matter.
Away to the edge I flew like a flash,
Tore open my eyes and threw up the sash.

The ball on the breast of the new-laid pitch
Gave the luster of an opening-day itch.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But Fred the Red, and 11 suitable players.

With a fit old manager, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be Sir Alex.
More stronger than horses his players they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

“Now Berba! now, Rooney! now, Patrice and Vidic!
On, Nani! On, Fletch! on, on Rio and Carrick!
To the top of the league! to the top of the Cup!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!”

As the seasons before have flew fly,
Players meet with the obstacle aim towards the sky.
So up to the table-top the players they flew,
With the cabinet full of trophies, and Ferguson too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the speaker
The cheering and applauding of each player.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the tunnel champions came with a bound.

They were dressed all uniform, from head to foot,
All furnished with the new shirt, shorts and boots.
A bundle of trophies they will bring back,
Finishing well above the trailing pack.

How their success has made us all merry!
But those expectations, they will carry!
Like in the past, they will not bow,
And Sir Alex’s hair was now as white as the snow.

The stump of his temper made him grind his teeth,
And the steam of rage it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a red face and a little gum in his belly,
Oh how the commentators all cringed on the telly!

He was primed and pumped, a right jolly of his ol’ self,
And I gleamed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye gave me belief of what was ahead,
And that I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled out all of the line-ups, and turned with a smirk.
And with a blow of his nose,
Up the table they rose!

He sprang to his seat as the referee blew his whistle,
And away they all played like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, well will soon be out of sight,
“Happy Season to all, and to all a good fight!”

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