I may be poor and on the dole
And just play a supporting role,
But, Lord I savour every breath,
Escaping from the jaws of death.
Our football oft does not inspire
Attendances to creep up higher,
Yet back in March we truly thought
We’d have no Shelbourne to support.
Each o’erhit cross and mis-hit pass,
Each shot that bobbles ‘cross the grass
Becomes a thing of beauty now,
Transfigured into art somehow.
A pitch o’ergrown and gone to seed,
Swept o’er by winds and tumbleweed,
And stands ‘pon which the mosses grow,
Like Milltown many moons ago.
So don’t despair or walk away
If we’re not like Brazil today.
At least we’re managing to cope
And where there’s life, there’s always hope.