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You don’t tell us to go away,
Chelshit learnt this the hard way.
We made the Blues suffer the blues,
For the draw must hurt as much as it would to loose.

Now the Scousers were in our path,
We being Nineteen Titles and a fucking world apart.
Looserpool won’t shut their mouth for a bit,
So at the Theatre of Dreams, we made them taste shit.

And City-Shitty, here we come,
You’re our neighbours, but be very alarmed.
For you would suffer more than the rest,
Laid to rest, by a bullet at chest.

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