By the blackened Tolka River,
As the day gives way to dark,
Even pigeons give a shiver
As they fly o’er Tolka Park.
In the boardroom, dank and dreary,
Like a harbinger of doom,
Candlelight reveals an eerie
Figure shadowed in the gloom.
Outside, all the world is sleeping,
Peaceful in its pleasant dreams,
But, here, the Evil One comes creeping,
Hatching foul and ghastly schemes.
Clad in black, with cape a-swaying,
Cackling madly to himself,
Eyes of deathly green a-playing
‘Pon the trophies on the shelf.
His mind harks back to previous glories
Against the men of Inchicore,
Legends that grew into stories,
Each one rotten to the core.
How he battled with the Fat Man,
Unregist’ring the Fat Man’s mail,
And, like the Penguin fighting Batman,
Fat Man’s hopes were doomed to fail.
Or how he fought the Candystripers,
Ripping down their sarky flags,
And how the moaners and the gripers
Couldn’t make him pack his bags.
In the pot, he throws the pieces
Of a strange and potent brew-
Ear of toad and squirrel’s faeces,
Hair of snail and arse of gnu.
Ligament of centre forward
And one metatarsal bone.
Add some toenails and some more blood
Squeezed out of a Dooney stone.
Suddenly, our evil hero
Lets forth an inhuman moan,
“Zimru Ten St. Patricks Zero,”
He chants insanely, all alone.
All throughout the night he paces,
Plotting how to slay his foes,
Picturing the anguished faces
Of the Rovers and the Bohs.
But, when the first rays of the morning
Light whate’er the darkness hid,
Ollie settles down and, yawning,
Closes down the coffin lid.