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Most children are reared on the team of their fathers
While being led to Mass by the hand of their mothers.
Playing football behind a desolate, tenement back court
Was were as a 5 year old, against painted goals, we first scored.
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On Saturdays, when the Celtic were playing home at Parkhead
We were wrapped in a green scarf, a tammy for our heads.
A few shillings in our pockets for a drink and a macaroon bar
While father had a few notes for a couple of jars.
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We would walk into the holy ground, ‘Cead Mile Failte’,
Were Paradise would welcome our heritage & culture.
On the terracing we stood, jumping back and forth, side to side
Trying to see round strangers; our heroes in the green & white.
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With every chance that was missed to every goal that was scored
I would jump into the arms of my father and together we would roar.
We would crawl home after a defeat, dance and sing after a victory
While mother prayed at St.Charles’ to the Immaculate Heart of Mary.
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Traveling home on the top deck of a double decker bus
I day dreamed of playing for Celtic alongside little Bobby Lennox.
Were we would terrorize defenders, race like a greyhounds down the wing
And with every goal we scored, our name, the fans would sing.