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Do you recall the rusty old tin shed
that was a feature of Athlone’s old ground?
Whenever someone scored, the fists would pound
the walls, with fearsome noise to rouse the dead.
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and rats and birds in abject terror fled.
It crashed as though Hell’s portals had been downed,
if suddenly the football did rebound
against those flimsy walls so widely spread.
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But, somewhere in the ether, it’s been said,
that tinny portico can still be found
where, taking shelter lest he winds up drowned,
a sleeping giant has lain his weary head.