I woke up in a fearful sweat,
Unnerved by some subconscious threat.
My violent perspiration wet
The pillow and the bedding.
My mind came under fierce attack,
Bombarded by relentless flak,
As though the Devil, clad in black,
Across my grave was treading.
Although my head was dull and blurred,
I ached to hear the spoken word.
I turned on RTE and heard
The news that I’d been dreading.
I knew that no-one thought it odd
That Kevin Doyle, the Son of God,
Who walked where no-one else had trod
To England now was heading.
But still I’d hoped that he might stay,
Decide he wouldn’t go away,
For who will now step up to play
Those balls that he’d been threading?
I looked back on his Cork career,
The goals ‘gainst Bohs loomed large and clear.
Oh how I hadn’t cared to hear
How fast his fame was spreading!
Brought on and given space by Pat,
He soon discovered where it’s at,
And signed a detailed contract that
Is only fit for shredding.
Nijmegen suffered at his hands,
His prowess spread through many lands.
The hero-worship of the stands
Is what the Doyler’s shedding.
For Kev had been engaged to Cork,
Despite the lewd, abusive talk.
The two were linked like knife and fork,
Or bridesmaids at a wedding.
As many people have expressed,
We’ll miss his keen and youthful zest,
But still, we wish him all the best
As he heads off to Reading.