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They say you play in heaven but that’s a bit far-fetched,
You’re more likely to kick about on the pitch where we were blessed,
To have you represent us, the field where you’ve shone,
I like to think Old Trafford’s where your legacies play on.

I like to think you’re watching us, your spirits in the stand,
I like to think from time to time that you give us a hand,
I like to think that bobble or that swerve is really you,
Playing the ball towards their goal just like you used to do.

I like to think you push the team ‘don’t give up my son,’
I like to think you’ve played your part in every trophy won,
I know that it’s because of you we play the way we do,
Coz the spirit of our flowers will always filter through.

Bent and Bryne defend the flanks, Jones commands the back,
Coleman, Pegg and Whelan, all feeding the attack,
Edwards covers every blade, imperious everywhere,
Tommy Taylor leads the front, still deadly in the air.

So when the team looks beaten and the shirts can’t find the heart,
I like to think your spirit…gives today’s boys that kick start,
To pile on the pressure and not give up the game,
Because of you we’ll never die, we’ll always be the same.

A lucky spin, a deflection or pinball in the box,
I like to think the lucky bounce comes from the ones we’ve lost,
A ninetieth minute winner, scored in Fergie time,
A helping hand from the Busby Babes just like in their prime.

Coz the flowers and the phoenix shaped United to the core,
And like petals from those ashes, we knew that we could soar,
For from that fateful runway, our club’s destiny was made,
So we sing about you every match so our memories never fade.

We sing about our Munich dead and a team that lay in the snow,
Shrouded in our deepest red, all those years ago,
We sing Forever and Ever, and of Sir Bobby and Matt Busby,
And how they fought on for the Flowers to win at Wembley.

I hope my granddad’s singing too, in his ‘popular’ stand,
I like to think he’s clapping and waving a victorious hand,
I hope he’s there with other granddads, the ones that have passed on,
So the crowd’s not seventy thousand but seventy million.

Those long lost Flowers of Manchester are the real reason why,
For ninety minutes every match, our team will never die,
We’ll rise and rise and rise again just like Matt Busby did,
And play on in your memory; always U-Ni-Ted.

(But still those clowns sing Munich and mock their hero too,
Coz one of the flowers of Manchester will always be a blue,
When they’re praying for deflections or asking god for a gift,
I wonder if that bobbling ball is saved by Frankie Swift.)

Copyright©2011 by Phil Martin
All rights reserved.

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