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You’d need a jeep to drive across the frightening terrain,
A bleak unending vista where the dips and hummocks reign.
The only way to map it’s from the cockpit of a plane,
Oh what happened to our jewel an’ darlin’ Tolka?
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A show-pitch of supreme renown, ‘twas once a bowling green,
The best and truest surface that the League had ever seen,
From Oriel to Coleman’s Park and all grounds in between,
They envied us our jewel an’ darlin’ Tolka.
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No blade of grass was out of place, the groundsman combed them daily.
He’d wear his carpet slippers as he trimmed and cut them gaily,
But now it seems he’s upped and emigrated to Australie,
And no-one minds our jewel an’ darlin’ Tolka.
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Sometimes it’s thick and stodgy like a lake of green molasses,
At others, it is rock hard and makes fools of perfect passes,
Defenders come to head the ball and vanish down crevasses,
Confounded by our jewel an’ darlin’ Tolka.
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Fit and sturdy players are reduced to painful hobbling,
There is no need for fouling, it’s the pitch does all the nobbling.
Shooting straight’s not easy when the ball just won’t stop bobbling,
You can blame it on our jewel an’ darlin’ Tolka.
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We should employ some young lads and drip-feed them fizzy cola,
Then let them loose upon the pitch a-harnessed to the roller
And whip them on like husky dogs on journeys circumpolar
To flatten out our jewel an’ darlin’ Tolka.