Through a Young Boys Eyes
¶ 1
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Are we still eighth in the table dad?
My small lad asked of me.
We are, I said with heavy heart
Curse of the devotee
¶ 2
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He’s witnessed 12 home games this year
He’s cheered and clapped like me.
But left mostly in sadness
We’ve won only the three
¶ 3
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When he walks back in the door
His mother asks the score
“Disaster mam” he utters
As more points drain down the shore
¶ 4
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And just like his dear old dad
He won’t stop going to games
Cos we support Cork City
Though our season is in flames
¶ 5
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And if we lose another few
I’ll elucidate just why?
Players, Gaffers, come and go
But we’re City ‘til we die
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