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In the year of 1899
when Victoria ruled
Great Britain and her Empire,
Horace was nae fooled..
while mates marched off to battle Boer
he fathered umpteen tiny tots,
did his bit for Queen and Country,
meaning Mary, Queen of Scots…
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With war won the lads came hame,
then like Apostle Paul
charismatic Horace Morris
spread the gospel of football
sporting Old Reprehensibles’
knickerbockers and striped shirt,
as he pounded pulpit
in a wee Kirkcaldy kirk…
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“Hearken heathens!” Horace howled,
foot stomping wooden floor,
“Doomsday is upon us!
Fire an’ brimstone, blood an’ gore!!
There’s rumour tha’ some rivalry
o’er in Glasgow has begun
‘tween a couple o’ their foo’ball clubs
but och, ’twill niver catch on…
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For I’ve had a Roverlation,
vision o’ tumult’ous strife,
tribulation twix’ twa Titans..
Raith Rovers ‘gainst East Fife!
Apocalypse as Guid meets Evil!!
Prepare for Armageddon!!!
Be Raithful aye, th’ end is nigh
nex’ year in nineteen ‘undred an’ seven…”
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He passed on at threescore years and ten
with prophecy unfulfilled,
a true Defender of the Raith,
whose stentorian shout was stilled..
Lies buried in auld churchyard,
head inclined toward Starks Park,
and folk talk of haunting happ’nings
by his headstone after dark…
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Some say a sombre spectre
emerges from the grave,
laments about Raith Rovers,
then wails ‘Scotland the Brave’..
but Raithless non-believers
dinna give a second glance,
reckoning Horace’s chosen team
stands nae a ghost of a chance…