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The city burns and Kathleen turns,
Her pain-wracked face a-quiver,
As Ireland’s blood from true and good
Dissolves into the river.
Was it for this – this Judas kiss –
That Pearse was honest broker?
Ah, freedom, yes! But who could guess
At soccer played in Croker.
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The wild geese spread their wings and fled
Before they would surrender,
And many tried to stem the tide
And died in bloody splendour.
But now we say, “Let’s have some tay,
Yon weather’s mediocre.
We’ll have a sup and then go up
And watch the lads in Croker.”
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The hall of fame, our national flame,
Now bows her head contritely.
Pain not taken lightly.
Her pristine turf now badly perf-
-Orated by this joker,
The wild and zany John Delaney,
Hair gone mad at Croker.
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From cold Kilcock to Kiltimagh,
From Curracloe to Kinnitty,
Men bold and true give penance to
The blesséd Holy Trinity.
The Virgin smiles down dim-lit aisles
As sobbing men invoke her
To intercede in that black deed
Committed up in Croker.
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That hallowed ground should e’er resound
To Irish names, not Saxon,
Like Shefflin, Green and O hAilpín,
And little Mickeen Jackson.
Kilbane and Duff? Not good enough!
Shay Given? What a choker!
On Hill 16 no Gary Breen
Should e’er be seen in Croker.
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For Albion’s game is Ireland’s shame,
As usual, quite perfidious.
An appalling vista, like a blister,
Deep and scarred and hideous.
No guessing where I’d like to snare
Them with a red hot poker!
Insert it slowly up that goalie
Prancing round at Croker.
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Those nancy boys lack skill and poise,
They’re full of bluff and posture.
Yet have you heard how much a third-
Class ticket in will cost ya?
I’d sooner smear me arse with beer
And lukewarm tapioca
Than pay to see the infamy
Of soccer up in Croker.