The game between Shelbourne and Derry,
As usual was fractious and tight.
And Shels hadn’t managed to bury
The long Derry hoodoo all night.
The Indian sign, held by Kenny
Shone like a Dark Mark in the sky.
And answers? Poor Shels hadn’t any,
As minutes ticked steadily by.
Resigned to renewed disappointment,
We knew well it would not be our day.
And buckets of wintergreen ointment
Would not rub frustration away.
But then, in the ninetieth minute,
As the Fat Lady cleared out her throat,
On high came the voice of a linnet
And o’er sacred Tolka did float.
And Jason despatched the goal sweetly
And all our frustration was banished.
The Indian sign gulped discreetly,
Then turned, as by magic and vanished.