(Champions League Final)
Surprised at my own lack of grace,
I supped my pint quite unperturbed,
And sat there with a placid face,
That great events had not disturbed.
I watched the scene as from afar –
These wild-eyed men bedecked in red
Who leapt around the tiny bar
With veins protruding from their head.
Fists clenched in joy, with raucous chants,
All self-control and balance gone,
They acted a crazy dance
For me, their audience of one.
They doubtless viewed me as a fool,
No int’rest in the wondrous game,
Who’d never heard of Liverpool,
Who’d not been touched by football’s flame.
And, as I sat, I pondered why
I could not share their great delight.
Was mine a surly, jealous eye
Upon this most amazing night?
I bear no ill to Liverpool,
They well deserved to win the match.
Also-rans now, as a rule,
They’ll revel in this purple patch.
I’m saddened by this Irish mass
Who wear the red and kiss the crest
Such declarations I find crass
And utterly bizarre at best.
When England play, they’ll mock and jeer,
And laugh whenever things go wrong.
And should they lose, they’ll raise a cheer
And sing a heartfelt rebel song.
But do they follow Bohs or Cork
And help to raise the standards here?
Or will the season’s football talk
Revolve ‘round Sky and pints of beer?
Throughout their native land, in pubs
Our trophy-seeking young men give
Allegiance to their English clubs,
Notwithstanding where they live.
Eggs and chickens, chickens, eggs…
Will we ever get success
If they regard us as the dregs,
Despite our native Irishness?
I sit here in my Shelbourne shirt,
Surveying scenes of utter glee,
Yet feeling all the righteous hurt
Of dreams that have eluded me.