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With a hint of regret,
We watched the sun set,
As we flew out of Dublin last night.
The seats were so narrow
They squashed up my marrow,
But sure, ‘twas a very short flight.
And back on the ground
At Girona, we found
We’d but ten miles of driving ahead.
And it wasn’t too far,
But they’d shut down the bar,
So we shrugged and trooped off to our bed.
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In the morning, the room
Had been lifted from gloom
And was bathed in the light of the sun.
And I scratched my big belly
And turned on the telly
To find out just how Ireland had done.
We’d been playing the Czechs
With the axe o’er our necks,
And our hopes hanging fast on a thread,
And I laid back and prayed
I would not be dismayed
On that large but uncomfortable bed.
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There it was, on the screen.
No joy, boys in green.
In Spanish they read out the score.
One nil doesn’t alter
From Ireland to Malta,
But it conjured up questions galore.
Were we great? Were we flattered?
Who messed up when it mattered
To prevent them from going ahead?
All our dreams have now died,
There is nothing inside,
All false hopes are put firmly to bed.