Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent Mark from tweeting, now he is alone,
Silence the chants and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle them overhead
Scribbling on the sky that Tamplin’s Dream Is Dead,
Put masks over the mouths of the public sheep,
Let the covid policemen wake from their sleep.
Billericay was his North, his South, his East and West,
Co-op his working week and his Sunday rest,
His noon, his midnight, his talk, his song;
He thought it would last for ever: he was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Fuck off Billericay, relegation is done.
Pour away the coke and sweep up the cans;
Billericay once again has only two fans.