Tell me, brothers and sisters of the Sky Blue hymn —
how can a King build a castle of stone,
yet leave the armoury empty?
We have watched four knights ride away —
Basset, Sheaf, Collins, Obikwu —
their saddles bare, their boots no longer trampling our turf.
Coins have clinked into the treasury,
yet no new banners rise upon our ramparts.
The riddle whispers:
“What use is a fortress bought in gold, if the warriors within are but shadows?”
“Why mend the roof of the cathedral, if you let the altar stand empty?”
“Is a King crowned by bricks, or by battles won upon the field?”
The transfer window closes like an iron portcullis,
and still the King’s purse strings stay tighter than a monk’s vow.
We cry for new blood, fresh steel,
but hear only the echo of promises down empty corridors.
Yes, we thank the King for a home at last,
but what is a home without a family?
What is a stadium without heroes to fill it?
The riddle gnaws: was the silver spent to silence us,
or to see us rise?
So I ask, as a humble pilgrim of the Sky Blue road:
Is this the plan — to build walls high while the heart beats faint,
or will the King yet reveal his hidden hand
before the moon turns and the season bleeds away?


#PUSB