And Sheedy turned and raised his hand
To claim possession of the throw,
But Waddle had the touchline manned,
And o’er the line it did not go.
And Lineker, quick-thinking, sought
The cross from Waddle to control,
As Bonner spread, with actions fraught,
To block the passage to the goal.
McCarthy tried to make up ground,
With Morris standing much too square,
As all through Ireland came the sound
Of horror mingled with despair.
But Lineker caught it not too well,
Although it struck him on the breast,
As Bonner in great anguish fell,
The Englishman that day was blessed.
Instead of chesting in his stride,
It took an angular deflection.
Where Bonner sought to field it wide,
The ball went in the wrong direction
And trickled, trickled, oh, so slowly
To the now unguarded met,
Past the brave and valiant goalie,
Cruelly, for ‘twas so ill-met.
And Lineker and Mick McCarthy
Scrambled on in mad pursuit,
But sadly, ‘twas the English party
Reached it first with outstretched boot.
As Lineker peeled off, delighted,
Sunburnt face alive with glee,
Over here, ‘twas unrequited,
As we watched despondently.