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The faces were drawn at the Last Chance Saloon,
The pianist played the most tension-filled tune.
We were sitting around drinking whiskey and gin,
When all of a sudden the Drog Boys walked in.
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Young Wes was the quickest, he took careful aim
And fired a sweet shot to tremendous acclaim.
The Drog Boys were startled but quickly fired back,
As people crouched down to avoid the fierce flak.
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All guns were blazing beneath the red sky,
The Shels Lads, thank God didn’t lay down and die.
They pounded the Drog Boys, then Stewie Byrne drew,
And fired a mean bullet that joyously flew.
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But then young Keith Fahey went in kicking ass,
And a cold sucker punch sent us out through the glass.
We picked ourselves up, wiped the dust from our suits
And waded back in with our big cowboy boots.
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On and on went the fight till the sun went to bed
And the floor of the Last Chance Saloon ran bright red.
Then Big Sheriff Feighery threw Fabio a gun,
He shot with precision and the Shels Lads were done.
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But as he lay dying, bold Jay squeezed the trigger,
And took his revenge as the graveyard loomed bigger.
But though all the Shels Lads looked moody and tough,
They knew in their hearts that it wasn’t enough.
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If you can get to the line and pull it back,
If your midfield can link with your attack,
If your defence can read the dropping ball,
And not show any hesitancy at all,
If you can learn to keep a silent tongue
When manly pride is by exuberance stung,
If you can see the bigger picture in a game,
And not make retribution your main aim,
If you can show a positive first touch,
If you refrain from hoofing it too much,
If you can take your chances when they come,
And not bemoan the wastefulness of some,
If you can keep your shape in unrelenting heat
And try your best to play the ball to feet,
If you can keep your head when all seems lost,
To overlap and not to count the cost.
If you can close it down when the game’s won,
Then and only then,
You’ll win the League, my son.
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Pat Fenlon-bashing’s no hobby of mine,
In fact I regard it as treason.
He sends his teams out with a higher design,
And the football is often crowd-pleasin’,
But I really must have this persistent small whine –
Can somebody tell me the reason
Why our fullbacks this year won’t push on down the line,
Like they did with success all last season?
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The League Trophy looked peaky,
Its handles were creaky,
To most it seemed haggard and pale.
With its shine wearing off,
It developed a cough,
And its plinth looked decidedly frail.
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The lid was quite rusty
And shabby and dusty.
Its base seemed completely unvarnished.
And it could but muster
A very faint lustre
With its sheen so disfigured and tarnished.
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So they made a decision
To call a physician
To see why the trophy was ailing.
And the doctor brought trucks
Full of obsolete books
To find out why the metal was paling.
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Well he prodded and poked,
And asked whether it smoked,
And he took both its pulse and blood pressure.
Then he said, “No mistake!
This old cup needs a break,
A brief trip where the air is much fresher.
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‘Far too long in the Smoke,” –
This old medicine man spoke –
“Has faded its once shiny pallor.
It needs some fresh air
And some plain rural fare,
Somewhere on the far side of Tallaght.”
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Well the elders agreed
These were wise words indeed,
All it needed was time in the sticks.
So they sent it away
For a year and a day,
Far away from the smoke-blackened bricks.
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The city’s fans sighed
And a few of them cried,
Though they knew that they hadn’t been wronged.
But all knew that great urn
Would be quick to return
To the smoky old place it belonged.
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The stage had been set, the orchestra waited,
This play had been eagerly anticipated.
The crowd took their seats in the gods and the stalls,
Sporadically making encouraging calls.
But when the play started, the acting looked stilted,
The pressure seemed such that performances wilted.
The mob showed displeasure; they were not deriving
Much joy from the glut of theatrical diving,
And in the first act, there were plenty of signs
That several on stage hadn’t studied their lines.
The interval came, and observers remarked
Performances, sadly, had not really sparked.
The second half started, and Duff pulled the strings,
Inspiring all those who looked on from the wings.
But generally though, the interest faded,
Delivery and presence were muted and jaded.
The curtain came down on this night of frustration,
And no-one took part in a standing ovation.
But despite the sharp pain of this sudden reversal,
We must not forget this was just a rehearsal.
The wizened director can still put things right,
Though there’s only three weeks until opening night.
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A twenty four carrot performance from the mighty Leeside men,
John O’Flynn was full of beans and so were Joe and Fenn.
They didn’t give Djurgardens too mushroom throughout the game,
Being careful not to leek a goal to keep alive the flame.
The others knew their onions, but ‘twas Cork had all the heart,
And sprouted wings, as through the game, they tore the Blues apart.
Young Kearney, City’s Marrow-donna, boldened fans’ predictions,
As Rico yelled at him he must be-troo-to his convictions.
They peppered the Djurgardens goal – what’s more, to give them dues,
They knew it was important that they mind their peas and q’s.
And when the ref cried, “That’s shallot!” the roar near split the sky,
‘Twas quite a turnip for the books that Cork were home and dry.
Great results don’t nessa-celery come from mighty deeds,
But lettuce celebrate the day that City cooked the Swedes.
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A vat of syrup laced with honey,
Oozing sugar, thick and runny,
Daubed with clotted cream and icing,
Might be luscious and enticing,
But would not be as sweet as when
Young Ryan crossed the ball for Glenn
Who, standing on the letters which
Defaced the famous Tolka pitch,
Despatched the most delightful volley
To leave the Bohs fans melancholy.
Those poor Bohs fans – the very same
Who’d barracked him throughout the game,
Who’d spewed a hatred so extreme
Instead of urging on their team.
And when they tasted their defeat,
For us, oh God, but it was sweet!
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He lets the attentive defender believe
He has snuffed out those scampering dashes,
But Weso has plenty of tricks up his sleeve,
And the fullback’s delight turns to ashes.
A shimmy and turn is enough to deceive,
And straight past the poor lad he flashes.
The lunging defenders all cause him to weave,
As each of them uselessly slashes.
He skilfully slips o’er each desperate heave
Like the wind whistling through their moustaches,
Causing opposing supporters to grieve,
With teardrops descending in splashes.
Oh many in football in Ireland perceive
That England is where all the cash is,
But still, it’s a thrill watching Weso achieve
Perfection in mid-table clashes.
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Do you know a good physician,
A trachologist of note,
Who’s studied the condition
Of the ear, nose and throat?
Poor old Roddy hasn’t spoken,
Merry quips are unreturned,
The silence goes unbroken
And we’re all a bit concerned.
He’s normally effusive
In the way in which he speaks,
But his words are now elusive
And have been so now for weeks.
It’s really quite unnerving.
It is not like him at all.
What purpose is it serving,
This sheer lack of Dublin drawl?
He must have some infection,
For he’s now completely mute.
It needs medical inspection
From a medical recruit.
So I ask, does anybody
Know what tragedy’s occurred?
Do they know what’s wrong with Roddy
And the reason he’s not heard?
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His name, he said, was Michael Grey,
A nobleman by birth.
He went for football trials one day
To show the world his worth.
He lorded it upon the pitch,
Supreme in his ability,
And never fouled his marker, which
Was proof of his nobility.
Throughout the most disruptive play,
He never lost his head.
No need for him to back away,
“Viscount to ten?” he said.
Alas, the coach, a socialist,
Said it was not to be.
“Its just no good, Earl Grey,” he hissed,
“You’re not my cup of tea.”
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Are the shape of things to come,
But it’s a subject which is
An anathema to some.
Dundalk’s new pitch attracted
Hostile comments and great praise,
The publicity extracted
Has been fanned into a blaze.
Some say the balls bounce higher
On the new synthetic plastic,
And say we don’t require
An invention quite so drastic.
While others say tradition
Should be left back in the past.
Each club should have ambition
To construct a pitch to last.
Myself, I’m undecided
Though I do admire their pluck.
Their pitch may be derided
But I hope it brings them luck.
Dundalk have bravely gambled
That the pitch will pay its way.
Let’s hope their lines aren’t scrambled
And they won’t be made to pay.
But there’s something they’ve not thought of
As this project comes to pass –
There’s something they are short of,
And it’s nowt to do with grass.
For other clubs aren’t hurrying
To plastic turf purveyors,
Sure, it’s not the pitch that’s worrying –
It’s artificial players.