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My wife and I flew to Tenerife,
Away from work and kids and grief.
Oh man, that sun was some relief,
The heat was quite beyond belief.
(Nearly burned a hole in my Aran sweater)
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I was sitting in an outside bar,
Gazing up at a single star,
Sinking my third Cruzcampo jar,
And listening to some folk guitar.
(Prefer the Clash myself, but sure,
You can’t have everything)
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And then a voice called in my ear,
Saying “Fathead, what you doing here?
Putting your feet up, drinking beer?”
I looked around in nervous fear
(But could see nobody but the wife,
And she was guzzling her third drink,
And she ain’t no ventriloquist)
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My wife put down her Tia Maria
And said, “What’s wrong with you, my dear?
Don’t you think its brilliant here,
Or have you still got diarrhoea?”
(She called out loudly,
So that all heads turned.)
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And then I realised – Friday night!
And knew why things did not seem right.
My wife would never see my plight,
For she sees things in black and white
(While I see them in red and white)
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I thought about it all night long.
Would we play well? Would they be strong?
Would Fenlon get his tactics wrong?
While Manuel played a haunting song
(‘Bout his true love back on the Tolka)
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I later learned we’d banged in six
As Jay and Glenn displayed their tricks.
In Tenerife, there’s no such kicks,
No place to get your football fix
(And not these poxy English friendlies
They keep showing neither)