Bowel Churning Time
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The war’s nearly done, but we’ve battle fatigue,
And I’ve got a horror of losing the League.
Three games to go and we’re four points ahead,
But why do I feel such unutterable dread?
I should be ecstatic, my heart should be singing,
But all I can hear are loud warning bells ringing.
The fat lady’s coughed up some phlegm from her throat
And prepares, with deep breathing, to hit the high note,
But as I look up at the hands of the clock,
For some unknown reason I see Devon Lock.
The sprinter who falls at the very last hurdle
Has horrible nightmares to make your blood curdle.
The twist in the ending, the sting in the tail
Recurs throughout hist’ry and makes grown men quail.
I know I should have some more faith in my team,
But my thoughts keep on jumping as though in a dream.
Dolan would love us to fail at the last,
And Longford are tough as they’ve proved in the past,
And Rovers will do us no favours at all,
Delighted of course if we suffer a fall.
Meanwhile the Gypsies could easily go
And take nine points from nine and so stymie our show.
Its part of my psyche, this negative thread
That pushes all other thoughts out of my head.
I wish I could stand on the hilltop and gloat,
But the words, to my chagrin, get stuck in my throat.
For the song they are singing, these loud warning bells,
Is “Remember Dundalk – don’t forget we are Shels.”
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