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I sat on the grass on the Hill of Killiney,
The night creeping up o’er the sky.
The dark, glassy sea stretched out glist’ning and shiny
The summer was still on a high.
A massive red sun round the headland was winking,
To my left were some youths quite proficient in drinking,
But the Holyhead ferry had set me to thinking,
As it sauntered majestically by.
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It could be us, sailing across the black water
To the harsh, rocky landscape of Wales,
Enjoying the craic and a few pints of porter,
And swapping our European tales.
And as we effect a smooth disembarkation,
And head for the dismally bland railway station,
Our hearts will be full of the clear expectation
Our ship will not come off the rails.
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We’ll pull into Lime Street as daylight is dawning,
Unwashed and unshaved and unclean.
We’ll find an old cafe in the chill, misty morning,
And eat every sausage and bean.
And then we will leave, maybe go for a wander,
Take a trip on the ferry that goes over yonder,
Or find Penny Lane, if enough folk are fond o’
The lads in their yellow submarine.
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Then round six o’clock, we will suss out the buses,
And start to head up to the ground.
There always is someone who knows what the suss is,
Unless he is already drowned.
And as we emerge in the huge Anfield stands,
We’ll roar and we’ll raise up our big, sweaty hands,
For, as every footballing fan understands,
The legends of Anfield abound.
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The game will commence and the Kop will go silent,
As Stewie and Jim take control.
Djiouf spits like crazy and Gerrard gets violent,
As Jayo and Ger test the Pole.
Poor Jamie Carragher’s all of a dither,
And Dietmar Hamaan gets pulled hither and thither,
Steve Finnan comes in with a desperate slither,
But can’t stop the first Shelbourne goal.
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Well oddly enough, all of us go ballistic
And wave all our scarves in the air.
The Kop is dejected and quite pessimistic,
They rub their moustaches and stare.
Ollie Cahill’s free kicks are dipping and bending,
Eventually one goes just where he’s intending,
And Hansen goes nuts o’er the crass Pool defending,
And Houllier tears out his hair.
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At the end of the game, they will stand and applaud us,
Accepting the better team won.
To be drawn against Inter will amply reward us
And give us our day in the sun.
And as we sail back on the Dun Laoghaire ferry,
Unable to sleep and exceedingly merry,
We’ll know that on Friday, we’ll massacre Derry,
And keep up our unbeaten run.
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But the beach down below me is still in Killiney,
It isn’t the Copacabana.
And the droplets a-falling are chilly and briny,
Instead of sweet heavenly manna.
Across the grey sky comes the dark night a-creeping,
The youths to my left are now silently sleeping,
And I choke back a sob, but am suddenly weeping.
If only we’d done Ljubljana….