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The winter sun sat pale and wan
O’er Tolka Park today.
Where once it in great splendour shone,
‘Twas now consumed by grey.
With mournful heart it struggled on
Across its charted way,
Dishevelled now, and woebegone,
Exuding but dismay.
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The memories will never fade,
As long as fans’ hearts beat,
Of when, in wonderment, we played
The European elite.
Unabashed and unafraid,
The air was warm and sweet
When marching in that grand parade
With palm fronds ’neath our feet.
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With massive pride, the Red Flag flew
In countless foreign lands.
‘Neath clouds of black or skies of blue,
Borne by a thousand hands.
In seats of a designer hue
Or weed-strewn crumbling stands,
It fluttered bravely into view
Above the shifting sands.
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Nobody knows what Fate might bring,
But few wil disagree
The title’s come with bitter sting,
Not undiminished glee.
But life sails on and we will sing
Again in harmony.
The King is gone; long live the King,
Whoever he may be.