lets go

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our Norwich dead.
In the close season there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of a refs whistle blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest citerzens of Norwich.
Whose blood is fet from fathers of past relegation battles!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from August till May fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to play football. And you, good supporter,
Whose limbs were made in Norwich, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry 'God for Norwich , Norfolk, and Saint Delia!

Posted By: ghostof barry butler on May 15th 2005 at 10:08:31

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