Steve Bruce is downstairs
He’s not making a sound
I’m worried he might murder me
And bury me in the ground
Of course he’s not there really
My mind plays tricks in the stillness
He’s the manager of Sunderland
And I’ve got a mental illness
Still his face haunts my dreams
As he stands by my bed with a noose
You’re a figment of my imagination
But, why do you hate me, Steve Bruce?
[...] Steve Bruce Wants to Murder Me [...]