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Doug retired from football and he bought a bit of land,
And though things largely went all right, he couldn’t understand
Why all the hens and chickens that he’d bought in Killybegs,
Despite his earnest blandishments, would not lay any eggs.
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He’d get up brightly every day, just as the cockerel crew,
And to the coop he’d wend his way at seven twenty two.
He’d open up the hen-hose and let in the light of day,
Then sing most unmelodically, “Oh lay, oh lay, oh lay.”