We only needed a draw.
We didn't even need to score
unless we let one in.
We didn't even need to win,
Just make sure they didn't.
The point the draw would have given
and the two it would take away
from the rivals we happened to be playing that day
would have been enough.
Surely an ask that's not too tough.
Surely a task even we couldn't fluff.
We were at home as well,
where we usually excel,
even during a dodgy spell -
Our fortress for the whole season,
an easy one, you'd think.
But it fell apart in a hellish half
of missing passes and sinking hearts:
one-nil down, then two.
Powerless fans, nothing we could do.
Half time: a chance to rally round,
to come back out on the hallowed ground
and rescue it from the dead. Instead
we played even worse and let in a third.
At least there's one more game to come,
we said, and did some rapid mental sums
of goal differences and goals scored.
But we'd only needed a bloody draw.
Sixty-five minutes, we got one back,
too little, too late, still on the rack.
Seventy-five minutes, we scored again.
Could they actually do it, the Borough men?
Ninety minutes over, five minutes more,
another still needed to score that draw.
Thirty seconds left, a penalty award!
And the Mighty Posh have gone and scored!
We're going up! We're going up!
It was like we'd won the FA Cup!
It was never a penalty, but who gives a toss?
It snatched a draw from the jaws of a loss.
And anyway, it was never a free kick in 2013
that sent us down, if you know what I mean.
So that's karma.
Here ends two hours of Mighty drama.