I wanted to send a letter praising all involved at Wembley.
Somehow this is now a poem. I Hope you like it.
The day the sun shone on The Millers over ten thousand strong,
Nannans and Granddads swelled the throng.
Our kid and his lass fetched the babies.
I even met Owl and Blade mercenaries keen to see heroes, if just for one day one sunshiny day at Wembley.
Coaches from all over the Riding hoping to see a D&R hiding.
East side seats to us were granted, Rotherham town centre wholly transplanted.
Red placcy seats framed our masses.
Shirtless die-hards gave us chanting classes.
The late May sun beamed down on us, and us alone.
“It's raining in Masbro'” said a bairn's mum on the phone.
The whistle blows, it's three pm.
What now of our “Carpe diem”?
We equalise twice, then a poxy toe poke makes my Asian mate spill half of his coke.
All over? It is now, some questioned the Lord why we bought tickets we couldn't afford.
We waved fellow reds back up the M1 And all did wave back, every one, every one.
Defeat did not produce emotions of wrath, Wembley suits Ronnie, as a backcloth.
The drop-offs were solemn affairs but what better way to forget all your cares than with a bag of chips and a pint of beer.
Thank God no Jamie Oliver here!
Yet still horns blasted that could be felt by the deaf. And I hear young Taylor on Radio Sheff.
He talks of the team and how they are gutted, yet from now on this must be rebutted: Not one single Miller that day was in the dark.
You had hearts of a lion; see Nelson in Clifton Park.
Nick in Wickersley.