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You’d think I might be of good cheer
With Shelbourne riding eight points clear.
I’m relishing, you might suppose,
The gap between ourselves and Bohs.
We could not let that margin slip,
We’re coasting to the Championship,
But, as the red crowd often yells,
“We are Shels, man, we are Shels.”
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How often have we led the way
With brilliant and attacking play?
And then, when all the pressure mounts,
We lose it in a game that counts.
And once upon the slippery slope,
We seem to falter, give up hope,
And nerves begin to take their toll
Whenever we have sight of goal.
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Although I’m thrilled with what we’ve got,
Those eight wee points are not a lot.
I might relax a bit if we
Could stretch it out to twenty-three.
My lack of faith makes folk irate,
But I have never tempted fate.
I’m wary each and every season,
History gives me ample reason.