We've got the power to lose, the power to choke Come on, Port Adelaide depression! When finals are fought, we always fall short It's a true Port Adelaide tradition! We always stop, stop, stop when we're top, top, top, September's here, we are shaking. Come rain, shine or hail, the Power will fail When the flag is there for the taking!
We finished ninth again! The Richmond Tigers finished ninth again! In any season you will see it is our fate To miss out on the eight We win a few, then lose a lot, and then it is too late! We just went down the drain We haven't been much good since 1982 Be it Frawley or Jewell, Northey or Geisch, We win a few late, and just miss the eight We finished ninth again!
This is a characteristic which has bedevilled the Scots (and not only in sport) since Macbeth was a boy. At their best they are matchless; at their worst they defy description, and you never know which extreme you are going to see. Given pygmies for opponents, they are liable to get slaughtered; faced by giants, they will run rings round them — and then snatch defeat from the jaws of victory by some last-minute folly. England, on the other hand, are steady and predictable; only they could have restored British prestige by winning the World Cup in 1966 with sound if uninspired football and bulldog determination. Scotland, who hadn't even been able to qualify, promptly suffered a rush of blood to the head and thumped them next time out, and the nation lived in a tartan euphoria — until the next disaster.