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Niall Quinn, as it happened, was honorary chairman,
Of the local residential committee,
And he called on Hierro and said, “It’s not fair, man,
Yon satellite dish isn’t pretty.”
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Hierro’s response was dismissive and fleeting,
And he sent the tall striker a-packing.
So Niall, enraged, called an emergency meeting,
To look for the residents’ backing.
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Well, they gave him their blessing to do what he could
To get the tough Spaniard’s compliance.
Provided ‘twas legal, they well understood
The need to face down his defiance.
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Now, Niall had some chickens [an old boyhood dream],
For he fancied himself as a farmer,
And cunningly now he did work out a scheme
Where they became part of his armour.
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So Niall hung on till the Spaniard went out,
And then he ran down to his coop,
And he summonsed his chickens with one cheery shout,
And they gathered around in a group.
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He quickly dispensed several urgent instructions,
And thanked them for co-operating.
He knew that their actions might cause nasty ructions,
And possibly trouble lay waiting.
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And when he had finished, he lifted them gently,
And placed them all over the fence,
Ran up to his bedroom and peered out intently,
His face ever-watchful and tense.
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The chickens, though, followed their master’s request,
And made for the colourful beds,
And, clucking away with encouraging zest,
They pecked all the flowers to shreds.
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Well, Fernando returned in the late afternoon,
And his blood pressure instantly doubled.
All over his garden, bright flowers were strewn,
While chickens walked o’er them untroubled.
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He let forth a yell, and he ran back outside,
And he banged on the Mighty Quinn’s door.
As Niall came down, he, with innocence, cried,
“What on earth is that hammering for?”
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As he threw the door open, Hierro let loose,
And Quinn’s bright expression did vanish.
In turn, he enquired, why the florid abuse?
He’d never been taught rustic Spanish.
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Hierro then dragged him around to the back,
Where Quinner feigned innocent wonder.
The Spaniard was bulling, his temper was black
And he wore an expression like thunder.
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These chickens he tended, though docile and few,
Could suddenly turn pretty vicious,
The reason for which, as all poultry men knew,
Was the presence of satellite dishes.
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Perhaps ‘twas the colour, perhaps ‘twas the shape,
That caused certain fowl aggravation,
But the salient fact that he couldn’t escape,
Was – they flipped o’er a dish installation.
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Well, Hierro looked sideways at Quinn for a while,
Sceptically mulling and thinking,
And then his bronzed face creased into a great smile,
And one of his eyes started winking.
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“You’re very inventive, you know, Senor Quinn.
I admire the way you’ve contested.
You played most unfairly, but I’ll let you win,
I’ll take down the dish as requested.
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I’ll purchase an aerial, throw in the towel,
And thank God you don’t own any cattle!”
And thus, though Hierro quite loudly cried, “Fowl!”
‘Twas Quinn won the aerial battle.