Going down that season, so many mothers sighing
News had just come over, we had five years left to cry in
News guy wept and told us, Saints were really dying
Cried so much his face was wet, then I knew he was not lying
I heard telephones, Come on you reds, and St. Mary's,
I saw boys, toys, torn football shirts and T.V.'s
My brain hurt like a warehouse, it had no room to spare
I had to cram so many things to store everything in there
And all the fat-skinny Ruperts, and all the tall-short Ruperts
And all the nobody Ruperts, and all the somebody Ruperts
I never needed so many Ruperts
Markus Liebherr was rightly led, saved us with some millions
If Cortese hadn't a-pulled him round, I think Lowe would have killed them
A banker with a crazy plan, fixed his stare to the upper echelons,
Parades knelt and kissed those feet of Lambert's, and a star
Grew up at the sight of that
I think I saw you in the Northam, drinking lagers cold and long
Smiling and waving and looking so fine, don't think
You knew you were in this song
And it was cold and it rained so I felt like our own Victor
And I thought of Markus and I wanted to get back there
Your skills, your drills, the way that you play
I watch you, you're beautiful, I want you to stay
We've got five years, oh what a rise
We've got five years, what a surprise
We've got five years, my brain hurts a lot
We've got five years, but is that all we got?