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The walk to the ground was electric,
The atmosphere crackled like ice.
That reversal at Bohs
Was a smack in the nose,
And revenge, sweet revenge, would be nice.
(Though a draw, many said, would suffice.)
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Bohs wore their silly blue jerseys,
With Shels in traditional red,
And the fans found their voice
For the team of their choice,
As these famous clubs came head to head.
(In the title decider, most said.)
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Bohs were much quicker to settle,
With Ryan given oceans of space,
And their two hairless strikers
Tried hard to out-psyche us,
But were swiftly put into their place.
(As is often, with Jamie, the case.)
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And we weathered the Bohemian onslaught,
And slowly we started to gel,
And our passing got slicker
And smarter and quicker,
And we knocked the ball round very well.
(Though our nerves had been quite shot to hell.)
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Then Pretty Boy skipped several tackles,
And Stuey came thundering in,
And everyone winced,
That he’d broken the Lovely One’s shin.
(Though ‘twas hard not to give a sly grin.)
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Down to ten men we were struggling,
With more than an hour left to play.
Sure Bohs pushed us back
And went on the attack,
And we watched with concern and dismay.
(Quite sure that they’d soon make us pay.)
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But they muffed their numerical advantage,
As Shels snuffed the imminent threat,
But as half time approached
Our defences were broached
And Grant stuck the ball in the net.
(In a moment we’d like to forget.)
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Half time was a gloomy occasion,
Great anguish and sorrow and wailing,
A man and goal down,
We’d good reason to frown,
For our pride and good fortune were failing
(And our grip on the title was paling.)
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But Nutsy, the master tactician,
Decided to play a back three.
It looked somewhat risky,
For Bohs seemed quite frisky,
And might well have gone on a spree.
(Or so it appeared to me.)
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But the ten men showed courage and bottle,
And fought like true champs for the cause.
And we carved several chances,
With through balls and glances,
But we couldn’t convert them to scores.
(Perhaps one of Glen Fitz’s flaws?)
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But then we’d a free, twenty yards out,
And the Shels fans did holler and clap.
And Jamie did roll
To reveal a large hole,
And Jay stuck the ball in the gap.
(With poor Mattie Gregg in a flap)
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Pandemonium up in the New Stand,
The roar nearly shattered the lights.
His goal twenty three
Had us dancing with glee.
It was one of those magical nights.
(After suffering the biggest of frights.)
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Our character came out to save us,
And we won, by a single goal each.
Those heroes out there
Plucked it out of the air,
In great deeds, too immortal for speech.
(And we hope that we’re now out of reach.)
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And Bohs will be so disappointed.
Their late title charge has been wrecked.
But Shels’ strength under fire,
Digging deep to inspire,
Is what we have come to expect.
(And that’s why we’re champions-elect.)