Football Poets

September 2005 Poems

¶ 1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 Ireland 0 France 1
(Oh what a lacklustre performance)

¶ 2 Leave a comment on verse 2 0 The people gasped when Robbie Keane
Emerged from Lansdowne Road.
What a bad night it had been,
And in his face it showed.
The disappointment in his eyes,
The frown upon his face,
Just made spectators realise
That smiles were out of place.
But that was not the reason why
The people stopped and stared,
For Robbie looked a bit awry,
Red-faced and tousle-haired.
The pain! The pain was quite acute,
And if that weren’t enough,
All across his mohair suit
Were tiny bits of fluff.
It looked as though he’d fallen in
A vacuum cleaner bag
Or else a massive rubbish bin
(Said one observant wag)
Sticky sweets were interspersed
Among the balls of fluff,
With yellow tissues all immersed
In gunky, yellow stuff.
For several seconds no-one spoke,
No words were said aloud.
Then finally, a small voice broke
The silence of the crowd.
“What happened Robbie?” said the man
With journalistic clearance.
“Why do you display such an
Incredible appearance?”
Robbie gave a sheepish grin
And answered loud and strong –
“Lilian Thuram had me in
His pocket all night long.”

¶ 3 Leave a comment on verse 3 0 Five Whole Days Before the Match
( Certain journalists here tried to ape their British colleagues by being shocked and horrified that Irish players were seen having a drink five days before the game with France)

¶ 4 Leave a comment on verse 4 0 There are journalists, I’m told, who like a drink.
(At least, that’s what a lot of people think.)
No more or less than any great profession,
I’m sure they like to go and have a session.

¶ 5 Leave a comment on verse 5 0 I’d question any journalist with sense –
If they’d a deadline coming five days hence,
When asked out for a drink, would they say, “No!
How could I with a mere five days to go?”

¶ 6 Leave a comment on verse 6 0 And yet, as we prepared to meet the French,
A section of the press kicked up a stench,
When several players were spotted on the town,
Five whole days before the match went down.

¶ 7 Leave a comment on verse 7 0 With moralistic anger, they enquired
Was such behaviour what the team required?
How could we hope to beat Zidane and Co.
By drinking with a mere five days to go?

¶ 8 Leave a comment on verse 8 0 A lot of people found it quite amusing
That much was made of premature boozing.
For even in the most besotted haze,
Hangovers rarely last for five whole days.

¶ 9 Leave a comment on verse 9 0 Such ludicrous attacks are often hurled
By headline seekers in the tabloid world.
But, over here in Ireland, well, somehow
We’ve managed to avoid it. Until now.

¶ 10 Leave a comment on verse 10 0 Oh Lord, is this the shape of things to come,
That journalists in Ireland must succumb
To pressure to increase their paper’s sales,
By fabricating inauspicious tales?

¶ 11 Leave a comment on verse 11 0 New Orleans

¶ 12 Leave a comment on verse 12 0 Tactically, you’ve been naïve, George,
You’ve committed too much to attack.
You instructed the team to press forward,
And you left yourself weak at the back.
Your gung-ho approach has backfired, George,
You left your defences too thin.
The goals have dried up in attack, mate,
And you’ve let an important one in.

¶ 13 Leave a comment on verse 13 0 Did you not read the manual fully, George?
Did you just take your eye off the ball?
If you’d worked out the proper formation,
You wouldn’t be struggling at all.
A manager rules with his head, George,
And always remains in control.
Your defence is incredibly porous, mate,
You’ve just scored a massive own goal.

¶ 14 Leave a comment on verse 14 0 Insult
(Just like when England were famously beaten by Norway, the anger in England at the defeat is really an insult to the opposition)

¶ 15 Leave a comment on verse 15 0 While English fans unite in grief,
And can’t express their disbelief
At losing to such men as these,
Whom they should really beat with ease,

¶ 16 Leave a comment on verse 16 0 In Northern Ireland there is glee
At such a famous victory.
The underdog, as fate decrees,
That brought the bulldog to its knees.

¶ 17 Leave a comment on verse 17 0 But if the English call it “shame,”
To lose a simple football game,
Then they must have a poor opinion
Of the worth of their dominion.

¶ 18 Leave a comment on verse 18 0 Cork and Derry Keep on Winning
(Surely their winning runs must come to an end soon? Surely?)
Every stride we take shows no improvement,
It feels as though we’re back at the beginning.
It really knocks you back
When you think you’re back on track
To find that Cork and Derry keep on winning.

¶ 19 Leave a comment on verse 19 0 Alan Reynolds could have been our saviour,
Although his face is lined and hair is thinning.
Though he battles undeterred,
We’re still languishing in third,
For Cork and Derry City keep on winning.

¶ 20 Leave a comment on verse 20 0 Stephen Kenny must be dancing tangos,
Rumour is that Rico can’t stop grinning.
While Pat Fenlon, with great tact,
Just acknowledges the fact
That Cork and Derry City keep on winning.

¶ 21 Leave a comment on verse 21 0 Supporters of both clubs are really flying,
Noses streaming blood and heads a-spinning.
It’s now a two-horse race
Being fought out at great pace,
For Cork and Derry City keep on winning.

¶ 22 Leave a comment on verse 22 0 Why, oh Lord, didst Thou choose to desert us?
Is this Thy revenge for too much sinning?
We are sorry and contrite,
But, Jeez, they’re nearly out of sight!
Can’t you intervene to stop them winning?

¶ 23 Leave a comment on verse 23 0 Joey Ndo’s Goal against Shamrock Rovers
(Shamrock Rovers 0 Shelbourne 2)

¶ 24 Leave a comment on verse 24 0 “Shoot!” we cried, much, much too soon
At this man from the Cameroon
Who, more than thirty five yards out,
Decided to ignore our shout.
And with a burst of speed so fast,
He very deftly knocked it past
The player who had taken stock
And rushed out to effect a block.

¶ 25 Leave a comment on verse 25 0 “Shoot!” we yelled as, in control,
He seemed to have a sight on goal
And in our mind’s eye, we could see
The ball crash in the net with glee.
But once again, his ears were deaf
To everybody but the ref,
And, as the next defender came,
He took him neatly out the game.

¶ 26 Leave a comment on verse 26 0 “Shoot!” we hollered, quite excited,
As the gaping goal was sighted.
But once again he did ignore us
And our earnest, heartfelt chorus,
Deciding it would be no fun
To prematurely jump the gun.
And thus, as one more came to close,
He nicked it neatly off his toes.

¶ 27 Leave a comment on verse 27 0 “Shoot!” we screamed in desperation
At this damned procrastination.
Why should he be so depraved
To put off this first goal we craved.
And finally the great man heeded
Us, as we, frustrated, pleaded.
And Joey, hardly breaking sweat,
Knocked it calmly in the net.

¶ 28 Leave a comment on verse 28 0 Rico and the Bon Secours Nurses
(Damien Richardson’s programme notes for the Cup game against Sligo waxed lyrical on the alluring temptress that is the FAI Cup)

¶ 29 Leave a comment on verse 29 0 Oh Rico beware of those Bon Secours nurses,
Romantic outpourings will turn to loud curses.
Oh don’t be waylaid by those silver-haired sirens
Who’ve broken the hearts of bold Shelleys and Byrons.
Don’t turn your head to the laughing-eyed temptress
Who sports a broad grin and a slightly unkempt dress.
She’ll capture your heart ‘ere you know what you’re doin’
And drag you away to destruction and ruin.
The heart is a vibrant, yet delicate muscle,
Easily torn at the hint of a tussle,
So turn your attention to things more mundane,
And we’ll soon have you back in the saddle again.

¶ 30 Leave a comment on verse 30 0 The Fat Lady is Conspicuous by her Silence
(From being fifteen points adrift, the gap is down to six)

¶ 31 Leave a comment on verse 31 0 Too soon, oh too soon, they performed our post mortem.
The Cork lads crew loudly, but now we can thwart ‘em.
Oh Lord, by the end of this fabulous autumn,
Will we really be able to say that we caught ‘em?

¶ 32 Leave a comment on verse 32 0 Metatarsally
(We’ll probably fail to beat Cyprus anyway, so the Boy Wonder missing the Swiss game is probably academic anyway)

¶ 33 Leave a comment on verse 33 0 Metatarsally crushed,
Metatarsally thrown,
Our chances and hopes
Metatarsally blown.
Four million people
All cursing that bone,
The seeds of despair
Metatarsally sown.
In buses and shops, we
Metatarsally moan,
The eagle has sadly
Metatarsally flown.

¶ 34 Leave a comment on verse 34 0 Food for Thought

¶ 35 Leave a comment on verse 35 0 The winger broke through,
But the small number two
Had armed himself well for the tackle.
He produced several spuds
And tinned vegetable goods,
Which he hurled with a devilish cackle.

¶ 36 Leave a comment on verse 36 0 He proceeded to take
‘Neath his jersey, a steak,
And he left the left wing have a feel of it.
And as the lad fell,
With a blood-curdling yell,
He accused him of making a meal of it.

¶ 37 Leave a comment on verse 37 0 Grimsby 1 Spurs 0

¶ 38 Leave a comment on verse 38 0 Those magical victories, every so often,
Give heart to the players, while helping to soften
The pain of supporting unfashionable teams
Who live off the scraps in a world full of dreams.
And up by the Humber this Sunday, let hymns be
Sent spiralling up round the churches of Grimsby.

¶ 39 Leave a comment on verse 39 0 Jason Byrne’s Overhead Kick
(Shelbourne 5 Waterford United 0)

¶ 40 Leave a comment on verse 40 0 There seemed little danger from Bobby’s left foot,
The ball seemed to hang fairly harmlessly but
Reaction was raucous and quick
To Jason Byrne’s overhead kick.

¶ 41 Leave a comment on verse 41 0 Blame the defenders, they should’ve stayed tight,
But they’d been quite wary of Jason all night,
Though they were not expecting that trick,
That Jason Byrne overhead kick.

¶ 42 Leave a comment on verse 42 0 Their goalie stood still as if blinded and stunned,
Out-thought, out-manoeuvred, out-played and out-gunned,
I thought he’d get physically sick,
At Jason Byrne’s overhead kick.

¶ 43 Leave a comment on verse 43 0 Goal of the season? Perhaps, perhaps not.
Though nobody says that it matters a jot,
There are very few scored that could lick
That Jason Byrne overhead kick.

¶ 44 Leave a comment on verse 44 0 The crowd roared approval as every Shels fan
Jumped up in the cold Tolka air to a man.
My neck got a bit of a crick,
At Jason Byrne’s overhead kick.

¶ 45 Leave a comment on verse 45 0 For the national selector, respect was quite scant,
As everyone joined in the Brian Kerr chant.
Oh Brian, can’t you see who to pick,
After Jason Byrne’s overhead kick?

¶ 46 Leave a comment on verse 46 0 End of the Road for Cork
(Cork 1 Slavia Prague 2 – agg. 1-4)

¶ 47 Leave a comment on verse 47 0 For Cork its all over, the dream is no more.
The passport goes back in its place in the drawer.
No more setting out on those overseas treks,
For they were convincingly bounced by the Czechs.

¶ 48 Leave a comment on verse 48 0 The book was absorbing but needed more pages,
The appendix said nothing about the group stages.
The children of Prague made Cork’s dream come undone,
Let’s hope it’s the start of a long, losing run.