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Our funds last year were wholly insufficient,
The taxman parked his car outside our door.
The books were deemed numerically deficient,
The camel broke its back beneath the straw.
The power of love, alas, was inefficient,
We weren’t protected from the hooded claw.
What care we now for Europe’s coefficient,
For sadly, we’re not bigtime anymore.
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The managers all stood in line to court us,
Remembering the good times gone before.
Uncertainty however came to thwart us,
For what kind of a future lay in store?
The place was under siege by the reporters
Till there was no-one there but Alan Moore.
A brand new squad, but for the loyal supporters,
Well, sadly, we’re not bigtime anymore.
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So now I’ll court me darlin’ sportin’ Jenny
From Donegal to Munster’s farthest shore.
We’ll have to scrimp for every single penny
Until our degradation starts to thaw.
For now, with teams like Wexford and Kilkenny
We’ll have to foster some kind of rapport.
Our memories are wonderful and many
But sadly, we’re not bigtime anymore.
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One time my mouth was veritably mealy,
I criticised the football that I saw.
But now I cry out “God bless Dermot Keely!
And bless his kith and kin for evermore!”
I admit my former indiscretions freely,
My minny-moaning sticks deep in my craw,
For under his direction, tough and steely,
I reckon we’ll be bigtime soon once more.