Everything’s fine in the village,
The boyos are all in fine humour.
The talk of unrest
And a team that’s depressed,
Is merely a scurrilous rumour.
The spirit in Cork is terrific,
All things in the garden are rosy.
And George is so thrilled
That his place has been filled,
For the subs’ bench is comfy and cosy.
The plan’s slowly coming together,
A drop down the table predicted.
This glitch in the team
Is just part of the scheme,
No surprise then that points are restricted.
Their ground-breaking vict’ries in Europe
Have bolstered the pride of the city.
Though the football is scrappy,
Everybody is happy,
And to say things aren’t right is a pity.
To be fifth in the table’s stupendous,
An achievement the fan should acknowledge.
The players are resilient,
Their teamwork’s been brilliant,
Despite that Cup exit to College.
There’s nothing to sweep ‘neath the carpet,
No laundry to publicly wash.
It’s simply untrue
All this hullabaloo
That the manager’s under the cosh.
Arise all ye proud Rebel army!
Unite in this thrilling adventure!
To be waspish and hawkish
Is simply unCork-ish,
For the manager’s way above censure.