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My God, we were dreadful at Longford last night.
We looked like a team who weren’t up for a fight.
Conceded four goals but it could have been twenty,
Considering Longford had chances a-plenty.
And this talk of the title, universally bandied,
Is quite premature, to be perfectly candid.
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Levine rolled the first in, mistake from the goalie,
But oh! Did a ball ever trickle so slowly?
There seemed ample time for our backs to give chase,
But they all seemed to think the ball had too much pace.
A do-or-die spirit was what was demanded,
But it didn’t emerge, to be perfectly candid.
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Then Dessie burst through in an effortless sortie,
His attitude seemingly languid and haughty,
Evading each worthless and half-hearted tackle
To increase the pain of this sordid debacle,
The Great Irish Hopes, as our team had been branded?
No evidence here, to be perfectly candid.
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First to each tackle, they ripped us apart,
And strangely enough, we displayed little heart.
Swift, passing movement, they notched a fine third,
As dreams of the title were bluntly deferred.
A footballing lesson was what we were handed,
And not before time, to be perfectly candid.
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And then Alan Moore, for the nth time this season
Exacts retribution for no seeming reason,
Throws up the game and picks up a suspension
To further increase our dismayed apprehension.
We’re losing our grip on what we once commanded,
And losing the plot, to be perfectly candid.
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They scored at the end, and it looked very easy,
Our eyes disbelieving, our stomachs quite queasy.
Dave Crawley’s great strike had been long since forgotten,
And we stood there and watched, feeling totally rotten.
And we did just what every attending Shels fan did,
We went and got drunk, to be perfectly candid.