Arms folded, angry eyes,
but one final time he tries
and stands up in the light,
a desperate and weary sight.
Pacing in his little box,
he points, shouts, gently rocks,
unable to change a thing.
And then they start to sing.
‘Sacked in the morning’ rings out.
He continues to plead and shout
but nothing that he can say
will change the final score today.
This match is already lost,
and he knows who’ll bear the cost.
The guilty few will slope away,
make more mistakes another day.
It’s no longer about the score,
they’re not listening anymore.
Arms wide like a bird of prey,
he’s run out of words to say.
When things aren’t going well
that dugout’s just a prison cell,
where the condemned have little say,
and their jobs, just slip away.
Because the guy in the three-piece suit
who no longer puts on boots,
the man who never kicks a ball,
he’ll take the rap for it all.
It’s just become part of the game,
players protected from the blame,
even if they have two left feet,
they’re assets on a balance sheet.
When the keeper drops a cross,
it’s easier to blame the boss.
That shot scuffed miles wide,
every little mistake his side
has made to lose these games,
because he picks their names,
the buck will stop with him.
They’ll sack him on a whim.
His final eleven’s been picked.
The last drinks bottle is kicked.
Whistle, handshakes, nothing to say.
This defeat feels like a pivotal day.
But before they tell the boss
that his job is done and lost,
is there professionally anything worse
than shareholders knowing first?
A confidence vote on Tuesday night
to show the market the price is right,
but sing along, the owner’s calling,
he is getting sacked in the morning.