I’m just on the blue side of anguish,
right next to the No Crowd Hotel.
in a ground where the empty seats languish
and the weeds grow surprisingly well.
The scoreboard is no longer working,
the turnstiles are starting to rust.
In the shadows, a gravedigger’s lurking,
though the shaft of the handle is bust.
The dressing room mirror’s in shatters,
the clock on the wall chimes thirteen.
The ghost of despondency clatters
where laughter once coloured the scene.
The odour of gangrene’s unpleasant –
it twitches the veins on your face.
There’s no future, no past and no present –
we’re the ones who have lost football’s race.
I’m just on the blue side of anguish
down here in this dungeon so dark.
And here we will suffer and languish
till the good times light up Tolka Park.