Wigan at home saturday.
To lose what would that mean?
A sorrow so deep, painful, poisonous, untreatable, fatal.
Defeat, a craven brood consumed, rivals laugh. United, feeble, a beggars team, club, derangement, madness a moment away. Cursed be a black box for a coffin, out on a hill, the Gog Magogs, falling even then, to hit the ground, pouring out wrath from heathens.
That to be Cambridge, his heart will not be content in life, he shall recieve no water in the necropolis of his soul, and shall be destroyed for eternity. Phoebe, Glisson Road.
A donkeys head for the new club crest. Rick, York Street.
As flash as a rat with a gold tooth, Vic, a blues fan of Bristol road south, Rubery, of Gary Gardner playing for the Blues, never mind Cambridge.
Good days coming, the destruction of a putrid club. BARRY OUT, THE BOARD......
