On the gable end of the block
there ‘stood’ painted goalposts,
two dimensional, just like our lives were meant to be.
Inconsequential and insubstantial to those that did not understand
but they were the gateway to our culture
speaking more than any political proclamation.
That block was our island, our very own nation.
It was neatly bookended with the words Leeds Utd
a daily reminder of all those that had gone to other shores
to etch out a future free of predestined narratives.
Outside authority was alien to us and when we rubbed up against it
it screeched like some horrible language.
Bitterness was the true mother tongue
and dead hearted men would drown their self-loathing in pints
and then they would keen underneath the moon for their lost youth
and the love that had alluded them.
The women would weep or else join them
and in those dark cramped halls lives were broken.
On our road pain was buried deep
waves of desperate longing left unspoken.
From underneath a grey generation of patriots we struggled,
strangled by sentiments as foreign to us as any oppressor’s tongue.
History whored about as cheap commodity, a catch all opiate to placate
the common hoards.
We were Free-state bastards, told that we were living beyond our means.
We were sinners told that we were living with venal disease.
We were an economy gone wrong, a doleful death rattling scream.
We were us…faded but beautiful as vivid as a living dream.

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