Sligo 1 Shelbourne 1 Bad Poet 1
¶ 1
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I was up for the political satire prize
In a poetry competition.
So down toward Strokestown should I turn my eyes
On a hopeful if fanciful mission?
¶ 2
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For yes, it so happened that on the same night
The Reds were competing in Sligo,
And thus a dilemna loomed large, loomed bright,
To which great event should I go?
¶ 3
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To cut a quite lengthy and boring tale short,
I plumped for the Roscommon gig.
Opting for art, I said, rather than sport,
I felt like a bit of a prig.
¶ 4
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My wife though decided my head must be light,
Lost a few more little grey cells,
“For there isn’t much art in the doggerel you write,
And not too much sport watching Shels.”
¶ 5
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This dose of reality caught on the chin
Was despatched with a flattening sigh,
And sadly the Reds couldn’t manage a win,
And, as it transpired, nor could I!
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