Football Poets

‘Something’ to do with Ireland

¶ 1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 The day’s finally came – he’ll be excited, well you were at your first big game,
get into the car, be sure to hang your scarf out the window, go and collect the wean.
You’ve got on the colours, your hand-glider; have a whiskey to keep the nerves steady,
he’s only a child, so you try to keep it mild, but he’s learning the rebel songs already.
Walking to the Stadium, everyone around is religiously wearing green, white and gold.
It’s alright, no worries, your surrounded by your own kind, no need to take his hand,
the boy is only ten; so we’ll forgive him then, for thinking they’re all straight off a boat
from Ireland!

¶ 2 Leave a comment on verse 2 0 Have a good look around – like a beast into battle, when you’ve entered the ground,
that’s why you came, here’s how it’s done, pass on the hatred you’ve found.
A corner of Royal blue, staring their way, you aim your favourite party song,
he’s studying you, putting up a finger or two; he’ll be like you before too long.
Sitting by your side, pie and Bovril, he has your passion for watching the game.
So innocent, only young, he’s sensing your plight, wonders just how it all began,
the boy didn’t know, until his Glaswegian father told him so, that he’s singing
for their Ireland!

¶ 3 Leave a comment on verse 3 0 With dulcet tone – scarf in both hands, heart pounding to “You’ll never walk alone”,
cheering each tackle, you rise to your feet, especially when it cuts to the bone.
Chorus finished, hands to his ears, you’re outraged as Shuggy brings out the cards,
‘til this day, he’d never heard his father say, ‘GIT INTAE THESE ORANGE BASTARDS’!
Learning the phrases, thinks you’ll be impressed, stands up with a word or two.
Just swore, but you never blinked, belter, even the blip ‘bloody’ is usually banned,
now the boy really isn’t sure, but maybe you don’t need to be pure, when you’re
representing Ireland!

¶ 4 Leave a comment on verse 4 0 Half-time whistle blown – they disappear up the tunnel, hide the man you’ve shown,
he’s wondering, is everyone the same, do we all get that look when we’ve grown?
Calming down, you turn around to your boy; he can still see that hate in your eyes,
hearing a flute sound, he quickly turns round, is it them I’m suppose to despise?
Taking it all in, he’s listening, you’re talking about that ‘Billy Boy’ from your work.
Union Jack tattooed on his arm, you say, he’s in The Lodge, seemingly even in a band,
what instrument does he play, the boy was about to say, and do they sing those songs
from Ireland?

¶ 5 Leave a comment on verse 5 0 There goes another filthy hack – the tension’s rising, every player’s having a crack,
he’s not exactly sure what a mason is, must be the Ref, he’s the only one in black.
He points to the spot, the penalty has been given; they could now go ahead by one,
Baz looks a threat, in the top left hand corner of the net, ‘THAT DIRTY ROTTEN HUN’!
Paradise erupts, coins get thrown, 60,000 give dogs abuse to the 12th ‘Ger on the field.
All hell breaks loose, you’ve guessed it, the ‘Pigs’ assemble, the pitch has to be manned,
why’s everyone so mad, the boy asks of his dad, and are they fighting over football
in Ireland?

¶ 6 Leave a comment on verse 6 0 Morals gone in a flash – they’re winning, their ship has taken to the waves with a splash,
Britannia’s a boat, and what’s the big deal, on his Communion Day he wore a sash.
He’s remembering to ask later, who’s Bobby Sands, and why did he have to die,
how does a free bird fly, and if it’s so lonely there then why, sing about this Athenry?
There’s the Green and Whites, Blue and Reds, and the Black and White of the Whistler.
What are they singing, and again, missed it, something about men black and tanned,
not sure to speak, the boy wonders if next week, they will play this funny coloured
team from Ireland?

¶ 7 Leave a comment on verse 7 0 ‘The best team never won’ – regardless, you’re sure Dominic Patrick Murphy had fun,
it’s the taking part that counts, you always said; you’ve changed in the eyes of your son.
You were only showing him the ropes, planting the seed; you’re just like all the rest,
his mum didn’t want him to go, and she told you so, but as his father you’ll know best.
Stop for a bag of chips with salt ‘n’ vinegar, brown sauce and a pickle, a can of Irn Bru.
It’s a long journey home, he’s down hearted, he’s quiet; your day didn’t go as planned,
for the boy it’s a shame, what was suppose to be a game, ended up a history lesson
about Ireland!

¶ 8 Leave a comment on verse 8 0 Now that little boy has grown – he’s a father, has three football mad sons of his own,
they’ve never seen the bigot in him, as he saw in you, because that seed was never sown.
Two hail the Celtic; one supports the Rangers, your son doesn’t judge and never mocks,
‘he’s no kin of mine’ you say, in utter dismay, as William buys his first ticket at Ibrox.
Young ‘Billy’ sat with you as you grew old, unknown to him, he always made you proud.
Listened to every tale, every game, every goal; the 63 years your season ticket spanned,
but the boy just never understood, why when football was so good, it was interrupted with ‘something’ to do with Ireland!

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