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He waited as the cross came o’er
Delivered low by Alan Moore.
And, like a lethal man o’ war,
Or some heroic matador,
This merciless conquistador,
Displaying great esprit de corps,
Just threw himself into the fore,
A ritual of the striker’s chore.
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And, as we watched with joy and awe,
With great elan, he grasped the oar
And rowed us safely back to shore,
As he’d done here in days of yore
(Though not before this wrecked décor)
So many, many times before.
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And, as the Bray defenders swore,
The travelling fans let out a roar,
And hailed this striker they adore,
And waved the red scarves that they wore
And let their strident voices soar.
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And in the end, we gained a draw
(Another Jason Byrne encore)
But actually, the scoreline bore
The faintest tinge of Murphy’s Law,
For, as an old George Bernard Shaw
Remarked in jest to Evelyn Waugh,
We should have notched a whole lot more,
At least another three or four.
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But though we strived through every pore,
And into our opponents tore,
With flowing moves, diffuse and raw,
Alas, each Shelbourne effort saw
The hand of Fate slam shut the door,
Which stuck so deep into my craw
That in the morning I was sore.
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Oh God above, do not ignore
This imprecation, I implore.
For verily we do abhor
To ship these sloppy goals galore,
And let there not, from heretofore,
Be many games like this in store.