Cold Comfort Against Longford
¶ 1
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It was a bleak St. Patrick’s Day,
The coldest I remember.
Supposedly ‘twas nearer May
Than bitterest December.
Summer football back again?
I rubbed my hands together,
Joints protesting at the pain
Of such inclement weather.
¶ 2
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The cold attacked our thighs and knees
And chilled us to the marrow,
United to a biting breeze
That pierced us like an arrow.
I guessed at minus twenty-four
(Although I’m bad at guessing)
I really should have paid much more
Attention to my dressing.
¶ 3
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Some penguins and a polar bear
Were skating on the river.
Despite their woolly underwear,
The Eskimos did shiver.
I sympathised with old Tom Crean
And his Antarctic traumas,
God knows the football to be seen
Did nothing much to warm us.
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