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Did no-one say to Alan Moore
That it was time for him to score?
Three late goals so far have it
The Icelanders and Hajduk Split.
But not last night ‘gainst La Coruòa
Although he nearly bagged one sooner.
Perhaps he didn’t realise
That time, when having fun, just flies.
But though he didn’t score tonight,
He’s still a chance to put it right.
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Twenty five glorious seconds to go,
The ball goes to Willo to break up the flow.
We’ve battled supremely; it seems now as though
The Spaniards can’t deal us a last crushing blow.
Our keeper, however, appears somewhat slow
[Unlike the performance of Shelbourne’s back row]
The attacker is closing, and dread starts to grow.
Why isn’t he booting it out for a throw,
Way up in the stands to the twenty sixth row?
Only Willo and God in his heaven can know.
Here comes the attacker! Will this end in woe?
Thwarted in cruellest terms by our foe,
After such a brave fight against Luque and co?
But Willo’s determined to put on a show,
And dummies the Spaniard with flick of the toe,
And boots it upfield towards Joseph Ndo.
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The Sugarloaf and Hungry Hill
Were lost in mist o’er Bantry Bay.
The summer rain was bouncing still
To shroud the picturesque display,
But in our holiday abode,
All eyes were fixed on Lansdowne Road.
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And as the gripping match wore on,
And Shelbourne firmly held their own,
A tiny ray of sunlight shone,
And pierced the grey, forbidding stone.
Where it landed, nature glowed,
As we kept eyes on Lansdowne Road.
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The tiny breach began to grow
Until a pool of blue appeared.
The summer rainfall ceased its flow,
As gradually the dark sky cleared.
And, in a field, a rooster crowed
To mark events at Lansdowne Road.
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And when the final whistle blew,
The Sugarloaf and Hungry Hill,
Loomed large with features clear and true
That only nature can instil.
And summer sunshine overflowed
As we digested Lansdowne Road.
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For all those sniggers, when you told
What football team had your support.
For all those jeering eyeballs rolled
At every Eircom League report.
For all those times when conversation
Turned to Arsenal and United,
Ignoring all the degradation
When your football team was slighted.
For all those times when loud-mouthed men,
Who claim to understand the game,
Scratched away with poisoned pen,
To Ireland’s journalistic shame.
For every word the mockers uttered,
Sneering at your one true passion,
Patronising cliches muttered
That the league was not in fashion.
For all those million football shirts
From every foreign side, it seems,
An industry which badly hurts
Your local Irish football teams.
For all those wet and windy nights
Of visiting your football ground
And cheering underneath the lights
With barely anyone around.
Leave a comment on verse 21 0
A smallish crowd at Harold’s Cross,
Terrace sprouting tufts of moss,
Performances that failed to woo
More than the dedicated few.
Position in the league quite stable
Near the bottom of the table.
Our periodic chanting drowned
At every Irish football ground,
Neither recognised nor hated,
For we simply were not rated.
So, for the dedicated few,
This really is a dream come true.