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You could hear the Devil cackle
As the studs crashed into shin.
Astride his tabernacle,
He essayed a wild-eyed grin.
‘Twas not so much a tackle
As a pre-determined sin,
And everybody rose up to deplore it.
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We thought Brophy’s leg was shattered –
The prognosis looked quite black.
He was well and truly clattered
By the big Kilkenny back.
But bruised and scarred and battered
He survived the foul attack,
Though there were simply no excuses for it.
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But as we watched, dumbfounded,
As the ref waved on the play
(Ignoring Brophy, grounded
In the most horrific way)
The ball was roundly pounded
Down the field and far away
With most spectators choosing to ignore it.
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But Glenn Lacey, full of cunning,
Picked the ball up down the line.
Full of muscle, full of running,
He had just the one design.
And the chip was truly stunning,
Like a glass of vintage wine,
Eclipsing everything that went before it.
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‘Twas a goal that sent us roaring
And deserved to win the game.
As he celebrated scoring,
Someone asked me “What’s his name?”
But at the risk of sounding boring
I consider it a shame
There were only just six hundred there who saw it.