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Half time in the match last night, the Shels fans were quite pleased,
Fears of being beaten had considerably eased.
Bohs had not created much and Shels were in control,
Thanks in no small part to yet another Jayo goal.
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And then, a little Shelbourne brat, oh, maybe ten years old,
Decided he’d run on the pitch with countenance so bold.
He ran o’er to the Jodi stand to show the Bohs his face,
Till an orange-vested steward thought it proper to give chase.
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It really was no contest for the kid was fleet of foot,
And the orange-vested steward could not see the little scut.
He scampered back into the crowd before he could be nabbed,
And the steward ran up to the fence, and with his finger jabbed.
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The crowd just looked incredulous, and then they roared with laughter,
As he sought out the little kid that he’d been running after.
Then, getting nowhere, finally he got a little sense
And walked away, but, as he did, the kid re-climbed the fence.
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Halfway ‘cross the pitch he was, when, turning round, he saw
The kid atop the fence where he had been a bit before.
And so he got a rush of blood, and charged back like a bull,
Which seemed, to most of us stood there, somewhat incredible.
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What happened next was classic, for while tearing ‘cross the grass,
His legs went flying and he ended up upon his ass.
The fans let out a mighty roar, bemused at the harrassment,
But thrilled to bits about the dogged steward’s embarrassment.
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The steward got back to his feet, though red and all a-fluster,
And faced the crowd with all the dignity that he could muster.
Guilty but of rashness, though he paid for it so dearly,
His orange vest ensuring that we viewed the faux pas clearly.
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Brilliantly evocative, it was a montage which
Does not condone the heinous crime of running on the pitch,
But the moral of this vivid and most memorable farce
Is that shooting flies with shotguns means you’ll end up on your arse.