The question was, should we pay heed
To tales that had been woven
About this pagan Northern breed
With hoofs that had been cloven?
We knew they ate their babies for
‘Twas documented fully,
And spent their squalid lives in ador-
-Ation of “King Bully.”
Their hardened eyes betray no smile,
No vestige of good humour.
They plot their thuggish deeds with guile,
According to the rumour.
For these were not of woman born,
Not sanctified or holy,
But rather, were the Devil’s spawn,
Their evil spreading slowly.
We tried to warn our noble youth
About the trouble loomin’,
For tiny horns betray the truth
That Proddies are not human.
The havoc they would surely wreak
Upon our population
Was far too horrible to speak.
We prayed for our salvation.
BUT when they came, they showed no trace
Of this inherent violence.
They stood, and with a solemn grace
Observed the minute’s silence.
The thousands that had driven down
Seemed ordin’ry supporters,
Enjoying their day out in town
With wives and sons and daughters.
No whiff of sulphur in the air,
No bloodstains on their clothing,
No screaming, writhing souls laid bare,
No fear, no hate, no loathing.
The stands around were all a-buzz,
For this was unexpected.
In fact, they looked a lot like us,
Which no-one had suspected.
They took our chanting with a grin,
Engaged in friendly banter,
And cheered their team to glory in
The match of the Setanta.
This has to be a fiendish plot
To lower our defences,
A scheming tactic, like as not,
Confounding all our senses.
How can they just be normal folk,
With such a reputation?
This had to be the cruellest joke
To play upon this nation.