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When I was young man, we travelled away,
And we just hated Boaz and Rovers.
From Kilcohan Park up to Ballybofey,
We followed the Shelbourne all over.
You needed binoculars in Harolds Cross,
Where we grimaced through many a sickening loss,
And the only thing we ever won was the toss,
Thank God there was no relegation.
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Oh, well I remember that terrible year
That they first introduced relegation.
And, match after match, there was always the fear
That, for us there would be no salvation.
We needed to win in our very last game
In order to stave off the ultimate shame,
And so down to Terryland all of us came
To cheer and to urge and to holler.
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But respite was short for bad things were to follow,
The very next season was shitty,
And all too soon, we were destined to wallow
In gloom and remorse and self-pity.
The all-too-rare victories were bitterly sweet,
More often than not we were doomed to defeat,
And long before May, the despair was complete,
As we left the Premier Division.
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And now every Friday, I’m in Section D,
With the young lad, that’s where you will find me.
And both of us shout out so passionately,
But we hear all the oul’ lads behind me.
They moan every time that a pass goes astray,
Or if somebody’s shot goes a whisker away,
And my son sometimes says to me, “Daddy, do they
Ever cheer or applaud or encourage?”
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But the lads keep the red flag flying,
With Tolka’s new stand looking swell.
And we still hate the Hoops
And Pete Mahon’s troops
But now we hate bloody Patricks as well.
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Rovers are homeless,
Derry are flagless,
6-4 to Shelbourne at Dalymount Park,
And Pat Dolan is seen,
Searching frantically for his nine points,
But we wave the red flag down in Tolka