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Where have they gone, that green-clad crowd
that everybody so admired?
whose singing was, at times, inspired,
strong, resilient, loud and proud;
who spent their time in Poland drinking,
licensed, as it were, to roam
by wives and children stuck at home;
and sang out as our hopes were sinking.
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What happened to those green-clad souls
that lived up to their stereotype,
became ensnared by all the hype
as darlings of the glad-eyed Poles?
who sang the Fields of Athenry –
a maudlin and depressing tune –
throughout the merry month of June
until their well-oiled throats were dry.
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What will they do, those green-clad fans,
returned home to the peat and bog?
They’re on the net now, mouths agog
and making season ticket plans
for Celtic, Arsenal and United
and other big-name foreign teams
that captivate their hearts and dreams,
while our national league is blighted.
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What do they wear, the Olé –Olés?
They’re sporting shirts from Liverpool,
propped up upon their own bar stool,
and waiting for their salad days,
when English football’s on the box
and Sky’s mass-media campaign
relentlessly cranks up again,
while Irish football’s on the rocks.
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Where are they now, those green-clad hordes?
They’re not at Pat’s or Turner’s Cross,
whose terraces are sprouting moss;
and they’re not congregating towards
the Brandywell or Tolka Park
or Terryland or Dalymount,
where football is of no account
and apathy has left its mark.