Oh the FAI Cup is a flittery thing,
With a fickle and delicate power,
A butterfly, fragile and silken of wing,
Pirouetting from flower to flower.
October was always the month it appeared,
But now it spreads wings in July,
And though to the warm, summer climate it’s geared,
It’s strange seeing it flitting by.
We followed it faithfully southwards to Cork,
Fearful in case we should lose it,
But there were no petals on Dolan’s green stalk,
No subtle perfume to infuse it.
And thus it capriciously headed north west,
To the wide open prairies of Sligo,
And we followed it blindly with hopes unexpressed,
But where did that sweet butterfly go?
Though Sligo are hoping they still have a chance
Of luring it to the Atlantic,
Tis eastwards its leading its mesmeric dance,
Increasingly fervent and frantic.
And here on a hill far above Tolka Park,
There stands an intense maroon rose,
Magnetic, hypnotic, it lights up the dark,
Exciting the butterfly’s nose.
Where will it land, this capricious young thing?
Where will it lay its sweet eggs?
Dormant they’ll lie till the first rays of spring,
Bring about two UEFA Cup legs.