It’s a funny Old Game.
¶ 1
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My hero is Jimmy Johnstone,
Henrik Larsson too,
so this is quite surprising,
a poem about you.
Your name is Davie Cooper,
so now you see the scene,
a tribute sent straight from a heart
forever clad in Green.
I live in London,
always have,
and probably always will,
a long way up to see your team
bamboozled by some skill.
And this is what i witnessed,
TOO MANY TIMES TO SAY,
Davie Cooper, oh shit he’s playing,
how will we win the day?
I hate you Davie Cooper,
for reasons I’ve just said,
so why did I mourn 10 years ago,
when I heard that you were dead?
A reason jumping to my mind
is the Cardiff penalty spot,
and I’ll ne’re forget the reaction there
from every praying Scot.
I was there cos of the Miners,
a funny thing to say,
but a walk from Scarborough to Blackpool Town,
called for a holiday!
From there I went to Clydebank,
this time on a bus,
ended up in Cardiff,
but that’s enough of us!
You scored the goal,
but Jock Stein died,
I won’t forget the sight,
celebration and silence,
two GIANTS ruled the night.
But it’s not of Celtic nor of Scotland,
that this Irish heart does scribble,
it’s Davie Cooper on the wing,
I curse your every dribble.
So now I’ve nothing left to say,
cos every memory’s bad,
you broke my heart with every touch
your left foot ever had,
my tribute is the shiver you sent down my spine,
they may be bad,
but the thoughts you bring
will always be mine.
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