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The ad for the match was direct and explicit –
“Come early to avoid disappointment.”
So I got up quite early in case I should miss it,
And rubbed on my favourite ointment.
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The ball comes to Wes and he traps it with ease,
Round the crowd there’s a bit of a buzz.
He skips o’er a leg like a straw in the breeze,
With a roar of approval from us.
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But the final defender slides in with a foot,
Determined that Wes won’t get past him,
And Wes, dispossessed tries tackling back, but
Some fools in the crowd only blast him.
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Psychologists say that you’re never the same,
When you find out just what wedded bliss is.
What chance has mere football compared to love’s flame,
When you’re constantly showered with kisses?
So last night the newly-wed shouldered the blame,
And the obvious reason for this is –
He’d chances a-plenty to settle the game,
So we’re pretty irate at his missus.
¶ 17 Leave a comment on verse 17 0 Probably the Shortest and Bitterest Ever Football Poem Composed During the Four Long Minutes of Injury Time When I was Certain That the Icelanders would Sneak a Totally Undeserved Goal and Snatch the Tie from our Grasp Just Like Hibernians of Malta Had Done Two Years Previously
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The ghosts were all out in Tolka last night,
As glory and Hadjuk Split beckoned,
And though they were careful to stay out of sight,
Their presence was felt every second.
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They guided our players and focussed their minds,
Breathed fire in their hearts and their tackles.
The Reykjavik lads’ inescapable binds
Were truly ethereal shackles.
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The big disappointments of Tolka nights past
Were with that performance well banished,
And when the long whistle was sounded at last,
They raised a clenched fist and then vanished.
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My son says I’m a little rat, whene’er I grass him up.
My wife says I’m a little pig when slurping from a cup.
My mum says I’m a little deer [when helping out, of course]
But after last night’s shouting, well, I’m just a little horse.