Long ago, in the county of Kerry,
In the mountains that look down on Sneem,
Lived a young farmer’s boy, name of Gerry,
Who subscribed to the footballer’s dream.
Now his da was a typical farmer,
He wouldn’t spend money at all,
And nothing at all in his karma
Would induce him to purchase a ball.
So Gerry got a big lump of butter,
And fashioned a tightly packed sphere.
His oul’ feller thought him a nutter,
But said he would not interfere.
The young lad got down to some training,
Dribbling the ball smooth and sweet,
Up and down hills, sun or raining,
With the butterball glued to his feet.
When the trials at Waterville beckoned,
He made his opponents look wooden.
They played him midfield for they reckoned
He could spread it around like a good ‘un.