God’s Chosen People, we are not,
For Thou hast tricked us neatly.
The Israelites just picked their spot
And scuppered us completely.
We played our part, and praised Thy Name
With music and with banners,
Our voices soared throughout the game
Proclaiming loud hosannahs.
We welcomed back the Sacred Harte
From Spanish isolation.
The Messiah, though, could play no part,
And watched with consternation.
At first you let things take their course,
Not seeking the attention,
But two quick lightning strikes did force
You into intervention.
You blew the ball into our net,
You caused O’Shea to stumble,
And then you snuffed each rising threat,
Surprised that we might grumble!
We sensed another presence there
Beside that black-clad goalie,
Protecting Israel’s goal with care,
Thy breath so strong and holy.
You stood there in the Hebrew goal,
Behind the men of Zion,
Relishing thy last-man role
And banishing O’Brien.
Whenever we seemed sure to score,
Thy guiding hand did thwart us,
We gnashed our teeth till they were sore
And offered up our daughters.
I’ve never been too zealous, just
Sarcastic and satirical,
But how we failed to beat them must
Be marked down as a miracle.
Our journey to the Promised Land
Is merely an illusion.
Our tribe’s beset by self-doubt and
Oh Lord, Thou hast forsaken us
And cast us from Thy glory,
Thy mighty plan has shaken us
And spoiled this wondrous story.
Our idols were all made of clay,
False prophets to the nation.
We rent our garments in dismay
And showed great consternation.
For we are wretched in Thy sight,
With fealty that wavers.
Take pity on our abject plight –
Send ten Roy Keanes to save us.