I hate all these foregone conclusions,
These fixtures that aren’t worth a bet.
I’m alone in not suffering delusions,
These damned football games make me sweat.
Shels are the Premier League leaders,
While Sligo are stuck in the first.
They think we are arrogant bleeders,
But I fear that our bubble might burst.
On Sunday, we went down to Sligo,
And came crawling back home with a draw,
This evening, I know that when I go
To Tolka I’ll hope for much more.
But deep in my psyche, I’m quaking,
We’re really not playing that well,
My hands are metaphorically shaking,
Afraid we might end up in Hell.
For nothing in football is certain,
And upsets are part of the game,
And if this is our faced, final curtain,
We won’t hang our heads with the shame.
But we’ll have to endure all the slagging,
The harsh, raucous laughter and jeering,
The permanent boasting and bragging,
And the loud, unblockoutable cheering.