Football Poets’ Cup
¶ 1
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Finally we qualify.
The Football Poets’ Cup.
Excitement almost makes us cry.
Like all, their first time up.
Then, grouping draw upon us,
almost die from our held breath,
or Butler, Goulding, Thomas –
seems we’re in the Group of Death.
Still, don’t bet yet on our group’s horse
to leave with hardware, ribbons.
Raymond’s our collision course.
So, too, Maguire and Gibbons.
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