By Mike Courtney
Twas the night before Takeover, when all through the place not a creature was stirring, not even Ken Bates. The scarfs were hung round King Billy with care, In hopes the GFH soon would be there.The fans were nestled all snug in their beds, while visions of Elland Road danced in their heads.
And Haigh in his Jersey and Neil with his hat, had just settled down for a long winters chat. When outside on the pitch there arose such a clatter, Neil sprang from his chair to see what was the matter. Away to the window he flew like a flash, tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow, gave a lustre of midday to objects below. When what to my wondering eyes should bestow, but a great big white Merc in the car park below.
With a little old driver we all love to hate, He knew in a moment it must be Ken Bates. More rapid than weasels his entourage they came and he whistled and shouted and called them by name. Now Blackie Now Wisey Now Macca Now Larry, On Colin on Lorimer On Allen On Harvey. From the top of the League to mid table we fall, now dash away dash away dash away all.
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, when they meet with an obstacle mount to the sky. So up to the top of the East Stand they flew, with a wad full of cash and Papa Smurf Too. And then in a
twinkling was heard on the roof, the prancing and pawing of the chairman aloof. As Neil drew in his head and was turning around, down the chimney came Old Bates with a bound. He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot and his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot. A bundle of cash he had clasped in his fist and he looked like a banker out on the piss.
His eyes how they twinkled, his dimples how merry, his cheeks were like roses he was definitely at the Sherry. His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, and the beard on his chin was as white as the snow. The stump of a cigar he held in his teeth and the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath. He had a round face and a little round belly, that shook when he laughed like a bowl full of jelly. He was chubby and plump a right jolly old Git and a face with your fist you would just love to hit.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head, soon gave us to know we had a lot to dread. He spoke not a word but went straight to work and filled up his pockets then turned like a jerk. And he lay a finger aside to his nose then gave a nod and up the chimney he rose. He hopped in his Merc and gave his team the
finger and away he drove without pausing to linger. But he was heard to exclaim as he drove out of sight, I've screwed ye again Leeds and I don't give a Shite.
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