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There was a most uneasy gnawing in my stomach,
A feeling of great disbelief and dread.
We’d made a mountain from a tiny hummock,
Which threatened to upturn our wayward sled.
The Drogs had turned the game around so quickly,
The first half they’d been almost left for dead.
My pallor turned from rosy red to sickly,
And hopes of triumph said goodbye and fled.
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But chickens, yet unhatched, should not be counted,
As someone in antiquity once said.
We saddled up the stallion and remounted,
And set about the task that lay ahead.
And Stuey with precision lobbed the goalie,
And Wes’s low drive in the corner sped,
And Jayo capped a trinity most holy,
By meeting Alan’s swinger with his head.
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An avalanche of goals transformed this meeting.
From hanging on, we now like champions led.
The Drogs resurgent hopes had been but fleeting,
And how their hearts with sorrow must have bled.
And as the Redsmen opened up the throttle,
My wan complexion changed to rosy red.
Let no-one ever say that we lack bottle,
Once more that lie’s been firmly put to bed.
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The gulf back down to Bohs grows even greater.
Their hopes must now be hanging on a thread.
Coasting, they collapsed into a crater,
As Pats came back to share the spoils instead.
And so from deepest gloom there comes a brightness,
Strong lights from darkest niches quickly spread.
We show our critics undeserved politeness,
As we stride the football world with surer tread.