I i see in my soul the citron breasted fair one
Still gold tinted, her face like our night stars
Drawing unto her her body beaten about with flame,
Wonded by the flaring spear of love
My first of all by reason of her fresh years
Then is my heart buried alive in snow.

They chatter her weakness through the two bazarres
Who was so stong to love me
And small men that buy and sell for silver
Crinkles the fat about their eyes
And yet no prince of the Cities of the sea has taken her
Leading to his grim bed

Death sends me the flickering of powdery lids
Over wild eyes and the pity of her slim body
All broken up with the weariness of joy
The little red flowers of her breasts to be my comfort
Moving above scarves, and for my sorrow
Wet crimson lips once i marked as mine.

I was moved by Carlisles ongoing deathg spiral into non league, the above is somewhat overly expressive, certainly for contemporary audiences, but contains the feeling of doom, approaching death, relegation.

Not totally ok for a football club, that deep feeling exists, but it doees, for one, now in Gloucester, not Carlisle.