To be an Everton supporter, or not to be – that is the question;
Whether 'tis nobler in the blue to suffer
The slings and arrows of outraged classmates
Or to link arms within a sea of Liverpool supporters
And shout nasty things at the opposition.
To shoot, to miss –
To miss – perchance to score. Ay, there's the rub.
For in the raucous crowd what shouts may come
When we have missed a penalty
Must give us pause. There's the prospect
That makes calamity of so long a career.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of the manager,
The tabloid's wrongs, the proud team's downfall,
The pangs of the disgraced player, the scoring delay,
The insolence of City fans, and the spurns
That patient strikers from the goalie take
When he himself might a six-figure salary make
With just a football? who would teams bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary training regime,
But that the dread of something after fame,
That undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No amateur returns, puzzles the next potential David Beckham,
And makes us rather bear the club we have
Than trade to others that we know not of?
Thus football does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of Everton
Is changed for the Reds' after a moment's thought
And a fan of great devotion
With this regard turns awry
And loses the name of Everton supporter.