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Upon a windswept limestone rock
That juts out of the ocean,
Where swirling, gliding gannets flock
With custom’ry commotion,
Where tourists have no need to block
The sun with balming lotion,
We all received a well-earned shock
To prick our deep devotion.
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We watched the ticking of the clock
With nervous hesitation,
The goal-less scoreline seemed to mock
Our World Cup aspiration.
These prodigies of fishing stock
Withstood our exhortation,
Till Hartey’s penno did unlock
Relief and jubilation.