‘Twas the day of the regional Final,
A petulant, niggly affair.
The rain pelted down
On the bonny, wee town
In the picturesque county of Clare.
The underdogs, Doolin, were battling
With all of the strength they could garner.
They were playing it rough
But it wasn’t enough
To unsettle the great Lisdoonvarna.
The rain did not make for great football,
The pitch became flooded with water,
And fans of each club
Buggered off to the pub
To renew their acquaintance with porter.
Then the poor Doolin fullback went sliding,
Upended the fleet-footed winger.
And the ref ran up, dashing
Through lakes loudly splashing,
Whilst waving an unhappy finger.
“A two-footed tackle, young Regan!”
Said the ref, as he brandished a yellow.
“Don’t go in quite as hard,
Or you’ll get a red card,
You young and impetuous fellow.”
“A two-footed tackle, ye’re saying?”
Quoth Regan with a sarcastic cackle.
“Don’t think that I’m chiding,
But did ye no’ see me sliding?
It was more like a fifteen foot tackle.”