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Through my life, I have spouted,
My mantra on totalling viewing:
The armchair supporter
Sits drinking his porter,
Enjoying the things that he’s doing.
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He shouts at the telly
And gives it real welly
And vents his opinions robustly,
And he roars when his side
Shoots so narrowly wide,
And complains when pulled up quite unjustly.
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Thus I came home quite weary,
From a day dull and dreary,
And I found the front door on the latch.
And my wife said, “Your stew
Is here waiting for you,
‘Cos you’ll want to go out to the match.”
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Tarnation! Hells Bells!
‘Twas Finn Harps against Shels!
It had slipped through my memory subtlely.
What, with World Cup and stress,
My whole head was a mess –
No wonder it skipped my mind utterly.
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But then, what happened next
Left me later perplexed,
And I still cannot rightly believe it.
For I shook my fat head
And with great fatigue said,
“I think that for once I might leave it.
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‘Sure, its just the League Cup,
And no crowd will turn up,
And I’d sooner watch slow-growing scallions.
And well, I might throw a glance
At old Portugal – France,
As they battle to face the Italians.”
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My wife felt my brow,
But then shrugged anyhow
And said, “Okay, if that’s your decision.”
So I stayed in all night
Watching football so trite
On my sixteen inch Busch television,
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What a grave, grave mistake
I’d decided to make,
For the football from Munich was numbing.
In the meantime, Shels shone,
Beat the Harpies four – one,
To leave loyal supporters all humming.
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I must go for a session
At Saturday’s confession,
And confide this to Fr. Maloney,
And he’ll really let rip,
Tear me off quite a strip
For succumbing to square – eyed boloney.
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Yes I’m bowed with contrition
For my stupid decision
To Welch on my strongest conviction.
Forever now thought a
Mere armchair supporter,
Condemned for this gross dereliction.