The bus departs at eight o’clock,
And booking is essential.
The annual pilgrimage to Knock
Is highly providential.
We’ll go around the church three times,
And when the church bell slowly chimes,
We’ll make our presentations.
We’ll ask the good St. Bonicef
To grant us all a favour,
That, with a strong away-team ref,
We’ll get a win to savour.
We’ll bow our heads in silent prayers,
And sprinkle incense lightly,
And genuflect with graceful flair,
And clutch our relics tightly.
We’ll pray that Jayo’s goal drought ends
On Shels’ Icelandic saga,
And that our thirsty travelling friends
Can find a pint of lager.
To St. Jerome we’ll bend our knees,
Extolling his existence,
The patron saint of referees
And referees’ assistants.
We’ll offer up repentance for
The sins we have committed,
And pray the icemen do not score,
And that they’ll be outwitted.
We pray the weather breaks a bit
And won’t conspire to freeze us,
And hope Dave Rogers does not sit
On those Icelandic geysers.
We hope the Lord helps our attack
Upon the northern pagans,
And pray the coach will get us back
‘Ere closing time in Fagans.