2008 Grand Final: Broken Flag, Shattered Dreams

WARNING: The author of this piece does not advise reading by any persons who support the team of blue-and-white hoops unless they have either fully recovered from season 2008, or feel they are finally ready to confront that final game in September, as the author herself did. Trust her, there is no joy or laughter to be found in the following, long (apologies!) article.

My flag has snapped. One second, whole. The next, conveniently dagger-like.

I didn’t mean for that to happen, did I? No, I’d just slammed it into the ground—Gandalf managed to do it without destroying his staff.

A string of cusses and swears follows. Tears stream down my face. My heart wants out, dammit! My stomach is tying itself in knots and threatening to heave. Then comes the long, low, moaned expletive. It comes all the way from the bottom of my gut, up through my chest, out my throbbing head. It’s repeated an octave or two higher.

This is not about my wimpy little flag.

“That was disgusting!” I screech at Darren over and over again as we wait outside the MCG. We lost mum somewhere along the way—I’m guessing she went to the bathroom. I wish she’d hurry up already.

I need to walk. I need to run! Dammit, I NEED OUT!!!

This was about the flag.

***

You couldn’t ask for a more perfect morning than this. There are faint wisps of clouds scattered through the pinky-orange sky. There is no breeze. It is too early for the cars or the people. Everything is perfectly still.

Chris and I are waiting in the car. We’d spent the night at Katherine’s, watching the overnight finals special. My head is throbbing a little from the disturbed sleep, but I know I still got enough. We ended up tag-teaming it, only waking each other up for the “good” flashbacks. Sometime around two or three in the morning, we both fell asleep. Hardly night animals. And it was an early start tomorrow.

Mum and Darren lumber out, a little bleary-eyed, but grinning. It is Grand Final day 2008. And, for the second year in a row, we were lucky enough to score tickets. Standing area. Hence the early departure.

Chris wasn’t going to be at the game, but he wanted to take a walk around the MCG, soak in the atmosphere. He’d thought Geelong would never win a premiership in his life, never make another Grand Final. Last year, he’d been surprised in the pleasantest of ways. He wanted to make the most of this—it might be the last time.

I pop on my iPod—I have a special playlist dedicated to footy music. Holy Grail plays, followed by a couple of Mike Brady hits. I feel tingly. I can’t wipe the smile from my face. For years, that ‘last day in September’ had been the dream. I didn’t really think we’d get there, but I knew I wanted it more than anything else I could imagine.

Last year, I realised exactly why songs were written about it. And this year, I knew the competition was better, but so were we. We still had to win it, but we’d shaken our perpetual bridesmaid status. There was no reason we shouldn’t win this one.

As it is with finals, our section was pretty much 100 per cent Geelong supporters. The downside was, we were only one bay over from the Hawthorn Cheer Squad. Still, if all went as it should, they wouldn’t exactly be getting much of a chance to be obnoxious.

The closer we got to the game, the sicker I felt. I was excited, but this year felt … different. The Hawks were the one team we had no clear advantage over, so it’d take a quarter or so to figure out how this one was going to go. I should’ve realised that all is not as it should be when the MCG inexplicably plays the 1990s version of the club song—like we need reminding of those failed campaigns.

In the (seemingly) boiling September sun, the game gets underway. Early on, there is a lot of to-ing and fro-ing. Doms takes a diving mark for Geelong, and kicks the opening goal with a straight kick from 40m out. This is a positive start for Geelong, and I feel a bit of the tension leave me.

Stokes looks very underdone, and Hodge is absolutely destroying him early on. On our side, though, Ablett is tearing through packs like a hot knife through butter. He looks like a higher being.

Bateman wins the ball at half back, and speeds off like a bat out of hell. He passes, collects, goals. Where is Geelong’s pace? I begin to wonder. Hodge is a barrier we cannot pass—every single F50 entry seems to land right in his lap. I begin to hop from foot to foot. This wasn’t the start I’d been hoping for.

Every time Geelong is in possession, we invent new ways of fumbling. Hawthorn, by contrast, is silky and smooth with every single disposal. How can they be so calm! Teams never settle into a big ‘un this early! Hawthorn score two quick goals through Ellis and Roughead, and suddenly they’re 11 up.

A bit of relief comes to settle my nerves when a 50m penalty for a post-mark shove in the back to Ablett is extended to a 100m penalty thanks to an errant knock to the head of Stevie J. Goal. Geelong keep winning it in the midfield, only to be let down by the forward line. Rooke finally gets one over Hodge for the team, catching him holding the ball. Hodge argues til he is blue in the face, and I smirk—not so easy when the ump is calling a fair game, is it?

Mooney crumbs a beauty of a goal from the pocket. He’s pumped, and he lets the world know it. I’m pumped too, now. Geelong is starting to dominate, thanks in no small part to Rooke’s demolition job on Hodge. He knows how to play this man.

My heart rate is slowing when it appears things are (finally!) starting to work in our favour. Campbell Brown kicks a goal down the other end, but is made to retake it as he was not on the correct angle. This time, it hits the post.

Hawthorn rushes two behinds, and I am already annoyed. There was zero pressure there—it’s just plain cowardly to handball it over the line!

Mackie is solid early for us; finals bring out the best in him. After much indecision (and poor checking from the Hawks) Mooney snaps a pearler from the boundary, 35m out. Ablett is having an absolute ball out there.

Williams gets one back for the Hawks after a silly 50m penalty from Rooke, and the Hawks go into quarter time trailing by a solitary behind.

I am confident that Geelong is now settling into the game. I’m getting a bit tired, having been standing here for hours, but at least the shakes have gone.

Chappy gets the opening goal of the second term, and it looks like my gut was right. When Croad does his navicular, I momentarily feel sorry for him, but a bigger part of me interprets this as things falling Geelong’s way. If only everything could align with this theory. Gazza is playing like a man possessed, but he has next to no support. We left our skills at the door, and you and I both know a one-man team just isn’t going to cut it. Selwood drops in for the occasional cameo, and Mackie keeps on keeping on. No one else is fronting up for the blue-and-white hoops, however.

There is a huge patch of time with no score, but plenty of contests. The ball is bouncing end to end, but never quite crossing that final line. One team (which I shan’t name) is starting to get a little feral. Still, I guess that’s what they’re famous for.

Then it happens. The moment it looked like the footy gods have finally decided who is going to win this game.

Chappy makes a brilliant spoil, the perfect spoil, in the centre of the centre. “YES! Chappy!” He runs after the ball, then soccers it to Otto who is all alone in the forward 50. “BRILLIANT!!!” Otto collects, runs about ten, twenty metres. He’s down the other end from where I’m standing, and I can see he’s got the paddock completely to himself. Lucky cow. He lines up, zero pressure and—he misses.

I feel my jaw and stomach drop simultaneously. What the hell was that? Absolutely inexcusable. Otto—Mr Reliable—missing? You couldn’t ask for an easier shot in a grand final! The Hawthorn cheer squad love it, as do all the Hawk fans. I cover my ears to shut out their jeering. I feel embarrassed, right at that moment, to be a Geelong fan. Appalling.

Moments later, Guerra handballs through the third deliberate rushed behind. He’s an absolute coward, and I couldn’t be more frustrated. He isn’t backing himself or his teammates. The fact that he feels safe to give us three behinds for nothing leaves me insulted and nervous. Hawthorn is confident.

Soon after, he casually steps over the line to give us a fourth. This is beyond a joke. And I am beyond scared by the implications.

We can’t buy a goal for the life of us, and when Young bombs one home from 50, it seems Hawthorn can’t miss. Harley goes down and stays down. This is not right—this is not how today was meant to be panning out! I feel that horrible tingling in my nose ad burning in my eyes that means tears are on the way. I force them down and keep watching the game. Come on Geelong! I plead silently.

When Stevie J passes it to Moons, who marks, two metres out from goal, I feel this is the steadier. We can go in to half time with some small bit of momentum. As Harls is assisted from the ground, Mooney finds a way to miss. Two metres out.

You have got to be friggin’ kidding me.

At half time, I duck off for a quick visit to the toilets. I try to avoid eye contact with anyone, but I can see the brown and gold jumpers out of the corner of my eye. I see the faces too. Jeering. Cocky. They know they’re onto something here. I seek refuge in the looks of Geelong supporters, and I don’t like what I see. Some are nervous. Some embarrassed. Eyes darting everywhere. Some, though, are defiant. It’s Geelong. We’ll find a way. You don’t go through the year only losing one game if you can’t ‘find a way’.

The third quarter starts, and a part of me has already conceded. To win, you need to remember what it is to lose. Without the threat of failure, what is there to drive you?

Geelong looks like it can’t remember its own name. When Doms hits the post, the Cats’ past 11 scores have been behinds. I start clenching and unclenching my hands. My legs are shaking side to side. I lean forward on the railing to hold me up.

Little Gazza, the star he is, at last gives Geelong fans something to cheer about, ending the drought. He’s having a blinder, and Geelong lead it by four points.

This lead doesn’t last long, when Buddy shows why he was the Coleman medallist down the other end. The other key forward on the ground, Mooney, has lost every ounce of belief thanks to the half-time debacle. His shot at goal is an absolute shocker. Where was the man who effortlessly slotted one through from the boundary, off a whim, earlier in the game?

After an eternity of scores being level, Hodge gets a shocker of a free kick. Explain to me, Mr Umpire, where this alleged contact in the back came from? Replays show Hunt going above and beyond to avoid the back. I don’t think what I actually said was quite so polite. If mum could hear me above the horrid, bloodlust cheering of the Hawk supporters, I might’ve copped a whack.

Campbell Brown joins in Guerra’s little game and carries over the 5th deliberate rushed behind of the game. This is an insult to footy. This is not how footy is meant to be played! As a Geelong fan, I may be called self-righteous, but we’ve been commended for our “true footy” style of play. We NEVER rush behinds. We’ve perhaps knocked two over (TOTAL) in the last two years. We always back ourselves to get it out. But then here comes Hawthorn, the anti-Geelong, the anti-Christ, whatever you choose to call it, and football dies a little inside.

Disgusting.

Sewell is absolutely destroying Geelong in the midfield—he gets nowhere near enough credit. Rioli gets a ripper, and suddenly the Hawks have it by 11. Geelong looks old and arthritic. Taylor, solid to that point, makes his first blunder for the day. I watch in horror as he is caught in two minds whether to bounce the ball or kick it. He fluffs it, drops it, Dew goals.

Then Dew sets up the next goal. Somebody sit on him!!!

I feel the first shaky sob come when I see Ablett, still powering on like the world isn’t falling down around him. God bless, young man.

Dew kicks another, and I start to taste something foul. Bile is rising in my throat. I am actually going to be sick. Hawks are up by 30. I manage to keep the contents of my stomach down, but this distracts my efforts from holding back tears. They come. I’m sobbing and crying and sick and angry.

Such a contrast from last year. I thought this type of performance was meant to be expelled from the Geelong identity. Apparently it was a false hope. Another lie. Like the one about how Geelong were going to win this game. Hah. Good joke.

I still hope for a sudden turn around—how long until the team realises what Ablett is doing and sparks to life? But Chappy is absent. Stokes is a liability. Ottens and Mooney are inexcusable. Harley is trying to remember his name and address.

God, this wasn’t how it was meant to be.

Dasher, playing at the wrong end of the ground, pulls off a miracle mark and goals. COME ON GEELONG!!!! I plead furiously. I steel myself for the bounce. This is it. This is where the sleeping giant wakes and absolutely monsters the opposition. Johnno sneaks a goal off a confusing down field free, and Geelong go into the final break just 17 points down.

I’m desperately hoping, with every fibre of my being. I’m not sure what exactly I’m hoping for, but I know the end result that would make me happy. But I’m also sick and nervous. I should be shocked that Geelong is pulling out its worst performance of the season on the day that matters most, but I’m not. It’s just so … Geelong. The horrid, painful, heartbreaking culture lives on. Perpetual bridesmaid.

The fourth quarter starts, and Ablett is giving us every possible chance to steal the win, but no one is responding to his invite. Guerra rushes the 6th deliberate behind. He just casually walks it over, just a minute in.

He knows any idea of Geelong momentum is a joke.

When Gilham handballs the 7th deliberate rushed behind over, I start screeching things about Hawthorn being unAustralian. I throw in a few favourite Aussie words just for good measure.

Even Ablett doesn’t have all the answers, missing one that could’ve taken the Cats to just 10-points behind and made a real contest of things. But they say the cream always rises to the top, and Hawthorn apparently stole the Cats’ milk this week.

Halfway through the term, the lead is out to 25 points. I don’t even know what’s going on anymore. My head is buried in my folded arms, against the railing. Hot tears are streaming down my cheeks, and I don’t even care that I’m sobbing my heart out. I’m not the only one, not by a long shot. I forget Darren and Mum are next to me—I have no idea how they’re taking it. My entire world has been confined to my arms, the railing, my tears, the pain, and the horrid, muffled sound of the Hawthorn crowd going for the kill.

The score line apparently reads 109 to 76. We leave.

We walked out on a grand final. Darren and I get out first, mum comes afterward. She takes one look at my broken flag, but I don’t remember her saying anything about it. A lot is said, but at the same time, not much, as we make the long, lonely, sad walk over the bridge to Flinders St station. Every now and then, we hear the MCG erupt. It’s a goal or the siren, I don’t really care. Then comes the big one. I know it’s the siren.

There are hundreds of Geelong people making this walk. Everyone looking at their feet, a few are arguing with companions as though trying to decide which one of them was to blame for the loss. As we walk past Fed Square, we all look up at the big screen. Dozens of us stop walking to watch. They’re making the Norm Smith presentation. Part of me immediately feels bad. I should’ve stayed for Gazza.

But when I see Hodge going up to accept the award, my heart finally breaks.

This sucks. There is nothing fair about football. It’s a horrible, sadistic invention used to break the hearts and spirits of thousands of people in one horrid, foul swoop. Billy Brownless once said losing a grand final was like a death in the family. Some people say that is ridiculous, that footy is footy and nothing like life and death.

I don’t think I’ve ever heard a truer way to describe how I feel. Those horrible, moaning cries of pain. The tears that seem to never stop. The clenching, sharp pain in the chest. The denial, the bargaining, the anger. I was multi-tasking in trying to get through the five stages of grief.

I can’t remember the train ride home. Chris had said, like in 2007, if we won he’d meet us in Fed Square for the presentation, then drive us home. There is no Chris.

I get home that night, and lock myself in my room. I go under the blankets and stay there for a while.

I get up to tell mum that I was going to the Geelong family day the following day. She tells me not to. Everyone tells me not to: it’ll be like a funeral. The players won’t want to be there, they’ll just want to get it over with. I tell them I wasn’t a bandwagoner and that I had stuck with Geelong through the lean years.

Finally, sleep comes. I am too exhausted to obsess and think of the If-Onlys any longer. Sunday morning dawns, and I stay in bed. I can’t do it. I can’t go down to the most sombre place on earth to lament once more what should’ve been.

When I eventually get out of bed, I spot my broken flag. Perhaps I could tape it back together. I give it a quick look over, but there are large splinters missing. It’s a goner. I can’t bear to throw it away, though, so hide it behind an old toy box.

It’s still there today.

It was a long, long time before I could let myself think about football again, but when I did, I was excited. NAB Cup was fast approaching, but I had a mission I had to complete before the first game.

I needed to get down to Geelong. I needed to buy a new flag. I had to have something to wave on that one day in September.

Geelong: 5.3          6.12        9.18        11.23.89
Hawthorn: 5.2          8.3          14.5        18.7.115

GOALS:
Geelong: Mooney 2, Ablett 2, Rooke 2, Lonergan 2, Milburn, Chapman, Johnson
Hawthorn: Williams 3, Dew 2, Roughead 2, Franklin 2, Rioli 2, Bateman, Ellis, Brown, Young, Hodge, Mitchell, Ladson

BEST:
Geelong: Ablett, Mackie, Selwood, Ling
Hawthorn: Hodge, Dew, Sewell, Ellis, Brown, Osborne

-VOTES-

3. Ablett (G)
2. Hodge (H)
1. Sewell (H)

About Susie Giese

Born into the worship of the mighty Hoops, Susie has turned to adopting a Zen-like state during games in recent years to preserve her heart. The Cats of 2015 have the ol' ticker a-racing, though!

Comments

  1. Absolutely love it.

  2. Grant Fraser says

    Susie you have perfectly captured the pain, the anguish, the heartbreak….I felt in 1984.

    Nothing is worse than losing a Grand Final you should have won.

    See you again on 25 September 2010….

  3. Good to hear, Josh. Do you like the new ending better?

    I knew the article was long, but up here, it just looks INSANE!!!

    Grant – Hawk supporter?

    I’ve been praying all year that Geelong and Hawthorn make the granny – we have a score or two to settle.

    Beat the Pies this weekend, and I’ll back you to make the big ‘un (provided that we don’t meet sooner) But if Geelong and Hawthorn meet again, I have a feeling things will be very, very different.

    Since 2008, these two clubs have consistently put on the best games of the year when they meet. One of the players, I can’t remember who – probably Chapman or Bartel – said that Geelong just never want to lose to the Hawks again.

    And I don’t think this current Cats outfit will ever lose to the Hawks again. We’ll never stop trying to prove our point. :P

    All the best (to a certain extent) :P

  4. Peter Flynn says

    Susie,

    Admirable and well-written.

    It was Chappy who made the Hawk comment.

  5. Susie, I’m not used to seeing reports on the Almanac this emotionally moving. Had me frozen in my seat. I’m terrified this will one day happen to Richmond – a successful Richmond team seems such a contradiction in terms that I can’t begin to even contemplate what it would be like to lose a Grand Final.

  6. Pure, beautiful, heart-breaking.

  7. David Downer says

    Susie,

    Wonderfully written, and a lovely tempo to it.

    But admittedly, circa 2009, you’d be hard pressed to find sympathy from a Saint like me! I’d happily take your position of wedging a losing GF between two premierships. You’ve done unbelievably well at a young age to celebrate TWO flags. TWO?!? Gimme ONE! I just cant relate to the Geelong hurt of 2008 with ’07 and ’09 to fall back on.

    But still, despite being the bitter and twisted Saint that I am, it was a great read.

    DD

    P.S: I too had an Ipod mix of footy songs on the way to last year’s GF …like you I had Mike Brady covered ..but er, I’m tipping yours didn’t include Doug Heywood’s 1980’s Saints fightback theme song.

  8. #4 – Thanks Peter :-) Yeah, it sounded like a Chappy comment.

    #5 – I hope you never have to lose a GF! Tiges are my second team, as you know. Provided they’re not facing Geelong, I’m totalyl gunning for them to win it.

    #6 – Aww, thanks Danni :-)

    #7 – Never fear, DD! Saints are too good a side not to win one. Your time will come, and it’ll be soon. LOL, no, I don’t have Doug Heywood’s song, but I’d hazard a guess you don’t have Year of the Cat from 2007, either :P

    And while I have you here, Dave, I’ll ask a favour: can you tell your club they need a new theme song? Your current one is a shocker, LOL. Make it inspiring and the footy gods will repay you with a premiership. :P (I have all the club songs on my iPod, but always skip Saints, Doggies, Adelaide and WCE).

  9. David Downer says

    Actually Susie, my brother’s a muso and did a re-mix of “Oh When the Saints” a couple of years back, sent it to the club, and the rest, as they say, is history – as in, it was consigned to history and they never touched it. Judging by your wise counsel, perhaps Ross and co should dig it out next week in preparation for September.

    …or they could revert to their initial club song “Oh I do like to be beside the seaside” – which admittedly is more family picnic material than “in-your-face rollicking” theme song in the “Yellow and Black!” mould.

    But for me, the Doug Heywood version still has a bit going for it. I dare say it’s not available on iTunes though!

  10. LOL, that’s funny, Dave :P But it’s not so much the music I have an issue with – as far as club songs go, I think that’s fine. It’s the lyrics I object to – your mob only changed one line from the original song. What’s inspirational about that??

    Oh when the Saints go marching in
    Oh when the Saints go marching in
    How I want to be with St Kilda
    When the saints go marching in

    Now, perhaps St Kilda has a hidden second verse, like Geelong, but I doubt it. I think Geelong’s second verse is the most inspirational of all verses in the AFL (however, I own to a slightly huge bias):

    So! Stand up and fight!
    Remember our tradition
    Stand up and fight!
    It’s always our ambition
    Throughout the game to fight with all our might
    Because we’re the mighty blue and white
    And when that ball is bounced
    To the final bell
    Stand up and fight like hell
    STAND UP AND FIGHT LIKE HELL!!!!

  11. John Butler says

    Susie, I’ll have to take issue with you on the Saints theme song.

    With it’s roots based in old Southern spirituals, I think its just fine.

    If its good enough for Satchmo, it’s good enough for me. Reminds me of New Orleans.

  12. John Butler says

    PS: Love the piece BTW. :)

  13. Hi Susie

    Great article, full of candour, sadness and a little bit of self pity. I get that.

    As a Hawks fan, GF 2008 was joyous. I have lived in Victoria for 18 years so I didn’t get to see the Hawks up close during the 70s/80s. I have enjoyed their successes from afar, in Perth.

    I turned 46 in 2006 but come GF week, I felt like a 14 year old all over again. One minute I was high as a kite, the next I was dreading the Final, imagining the worst. Reading your piece, I was able to remember that sickly feeling right up until the first bounce. We won and that’s great. We deserved it.

    The Hawks and Cats match up well. I agree, the games we have played since the 08 GF have been rippers. Even last year, when you guys came roaring back in the last quarter to win. I watched the ball fall into Bartel’s arms, in the dying seconds of the game, while Murphy stood less than a metre from him staring into space. We lost but the game was a beauty. Next time we meet, it is our turn to win.

    Cheers

  14. Thank for the comment, Rick :-D

    Is it a finals loss without just a teensy (or huge) bit of self pity?

    Hawthorn in the 2008 GF were simply awesome. Looking back on 2008, I always remembered it as Hawthorn just happening to win as Geelong capitulated. I watched the DVD last week to refresh my memory, and I realised I’d been wrong for nearly 2 years.

    Hawthorn completely blew us out of the water. They were magnificent. You well and truly deserved the premiership. And, for Crawf’s sake, a part of me is glad you got it. The unbiased part.

    I don’t know about this whole “being your turn to win” idea. I might consider it. :P Depending what part of the year it happens, I might even let you have it. But if it’s in September, I don’t think things will go at all like 2008.

  15. David Downer says

    Susie, I’d doubt a second verse exists, but here’s the Heywood version – the music to this part is not to the standard theme – but I like the lyrics.

    We’re saints, we’re proud, and we’ve got a lotta fight
    We’re on the move and they’ll feel our might
    We hit ‘em nice and hard, make ‘em drop their guard
    And we’re loyal to our mates
    ‘Cos we’re the Saints…

    …best I can describe it!

    We’re Saints, we’re good, and we got a lotta clout
    We’re fighting back, there is not a doubt
    We chase ‘em when they’re hot, hit ‘em when they’re not
    And we’re loyal to our mates
    ‘Cos we’re the Saints…

    We’re Saints, we’re mean, and we’re almighty keen
    We’re after wins like you’ve never seen
    Let’s get ‘em on the run, we’re not out here for fun
    And we’re loyal to our mates
    ‘Cos we’re the Saints…

    Oh When the Saints chorus x 3 …cue upbeat tempo for each subsequent chorus – includes 80’s style backing singers – magic!

    Ok, enough outta me.
    Dave

  16. David Downer says

    Err ..that shoulda been..

    “Cue music interjection of syntheising upbeat reflection …best I can describe it.”

  17. DD,

    MTP?

    That is all
    Arma

  18. LOL! That’s much better, Dave! I’d take that as a new, more creative Saints theme.

    As for the music, don’t stress too much. Geelong had “Cat attack” as our club song for season 1992, I think. And though it’s a fun song, with great early 90s rock elements, it does not belong on a footy field.

  19. hi all there is a hidden verse 2 the sanits song for i have hered that the song”oh how i wount to be in theat number” witch is were saints hot there song from hade 2 verses and the oh how i wount 2 be it that number part was song then the next verse then back 2 the frist verse but the secoud verse is never played it should be but soory i don’t know that it is maybe someone cjould look it up but as i said i heard this somewere not sure were so i could be wrong and plus maybe at the 66 grand final only one verse was song cos that was what sporter song

  20. i found a site that has the whole song on it the song satints sing when we win is song in full at the strat in most virsions theree is another virtion but some one read this one and adapent saints song 2 this and then we can keep some song but with the hidden vere have fun hopefull someone will show the club the new cration and it can be played next years grand final or something up 2 them
    http://www.musicsonglyrics.com/L/louisarmstronglyrics/louisarmstrongwhenthesaintsgomarchinginlyrics.htm

  21. this is the song now turn it in 2 st.kilda style etc and that in really the full song but it is 2 long so thats why the corus is only ever song(not fiar if the players have 2 memorise this but i like this better but alo don’t mind what we all ready have

    We are trav’ling in the footsteps
    Of those who’ve gone before,
    And we’ll all be reunited,
    On a new and sunlit shore,

    Oh, when the saints go marching in
    Oh, when the saints go marching in
    Lord, how I want to be in that number
    When the saints go marching in

    And when the sun refuse to shine
    And when the sun refuse to shine
    Lord, how I want to be in that number
    When the sun refuse to shine

    And when the moon turns red with blood
    And when the moon turns red with blood
    Lord, how I want to be in that number
    When the moon turns red with blood

    Oh, when the trumpet sounds its call
    Oh, when the trumpet sounds its call
    Lord, how I want to be in that number
    When the trumpet sounds its call

    Some say this world of trouble,
    Is the only one we need,
    But I’m waiting for that morning,
    When the new world is revealed

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