'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the ground
No player was stirring, nor even Carra the Pound;
The youth players were boarded in the Academy with care,
In hopes that Steve Heighway would pick them out there;
The reserves were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of the first team danced in their heads;
And Gérard, his red scarf, and Thommo the nose,
Had long settled down for a midwinter's repose,
When out on Breccy Road there arose such a clatter,
Sammy sprang from his bed to see what was the matter.
Away down the Kop he bounced like a flash,
Tore open the turnstiles and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of a trophy to the objects below,
When, what to his wondering eyes should there be,
But a miniature bus, and a large ginger donkey,
With a little mad driver, at the wide steering wheel,
He knew in a moment it must be O'Neill.
As rapid as sea slugs his players they came,
As he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, Balde! now, Douglas! now, Hartson and Lennon!
On, Guppy! on Lambert! on, Petta and Sutton!
To the top of the Anny! to the top of the Kem!
Now plod away! plod away! Plod away men!"
So up to the Main Stand the Celtic players lurched,
With their longball football, and O'Neill perched.
Alone on the touchline like a crazy old aunt,
Wide eyes ablaze and mouthing a rant,
About this ref and that ref and handballs that weren't
And diving Porto players after the UEFA Cup earnt
And caught in the floodlights Sammy saw from the roof
The soaring and arcing of every large hoof.
Three at the back and three big men up front,
Snow on the football after every long punt.
St John in the stands with a cackling wide grin,
He'd got rid of Houllier, being French was the sin;
Lee looked on in horror as the Bhoys show unfurled,
Into that Walton Breck gutter he hurled.
The forums, the talk shows, the 606 fools
Had wished upon Anfield these non-footballing ghouls
Reds dreams of European glory would be dashed to the hills,
By Cloughie's mad henchman and his "Launch it, No Frills!"
Sammy awoke with a start, sweat drenching his bed
That green and white nightmare running still round his head
So he ran around Anfield shouting loud as he could
How the manager you wish for doesn't always end good,
So remember in the Reds search for our Managerial Grail
Sammy Lee's cautionary Christmas tale
