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I was emailed this poem by a work colleague who is also a fellow red. I have posted it here, so that we can all appreciate this deep and heartfelt piece of prose:






Six minutes past three on that tragic day.

The pain and the trauma won't go away.

Crushed as I was in that terrible pen.

Dead bodies around me; one as young as ten.


I was big and strong, so I scrapped and I fought

To save my own life; well that's what I thought.

Because inside I'm dead and it cuts like a knife

That ninety-six died and I have a life.


I did what I had to; I had three kids you see.

I couldn't die; it couldn't be me.

If I had died that day I never would have seen

My Ma's last seven years: My dear old queen.


Ninety-six souls haunt my dreams.

The nightmares won't stop; that's what it seems

I wake up sweating, shivering and shouting out loud

"There's ninety-six dead in that bloody crowd!"


I feel anger, I feel hatred, I feel guilt, I feel shame.

Ninety-six souls tell me I'm not to blame.

So why do I wake up screaming and crying

Seeing the faces of young people dying?


Ninety-six souls come to meet me each night

Taking me back to that terrible sight.

"They're to blame: Duckenfield and Murray

We'll get justice one day. We're in no hurry."


I should have died that day: I know that's a fact.

With the ninety-six souls I've made a pact.

"When my days are up and my judgement awaits

I'll meet you all in heaven at the Bill Shankly Gates."

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Guest Young Casey

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