“Man of the match!” shouted Georgie
“Is awarded to young Kevin Doyle!”
And then he went into an orgy
Of praise for the blonde Irish Royal.
He’d run any niggly knocks off
And torn at the Bulgar defence.
He’d worked his proverbial socks off.
His worth to the team was immense.
As soon as the words had been spoken,
The ball came to Doyle five yards out.
Resistance would surely be token!
The nation drew breath to let shout.
The header was weak and untesting.
Their goalie breathed sighs of relief.
We spent several minutes divesting
Ourselves of our palpable grief.
“Man of the match?” we repeated,
In tones unforgiving and callous,
While Kev stood there pale and defeated,
Staring down at the poison-filled chalice.