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When first he burst upon the scene
To don the famous Irish green,
Way back towards the end of seventy four,
He put the Russians to the sword,
And Dalymount with fervour roared,
As Givens thrice delightedly did score.
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Mancini took the walk of shame,
But Brady ‘twas, who ran the game,
And gave an exhibition of great skill.
Next day the world in stupor read
How Russia had been left for dead
For Ireland had dismissed them three to nil.
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And as we hailed a superstar,
So young of age, who’d come so far,
We wondered, would his youthful brilliance last?
Or would he shine for just one game?
Would injury snuff out the flame
‘Ere many international games had passed?
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But time, with fond embrace, did show
How Liam, year by year did grow
To be one of the finest goal creators.
His famed left foot was magic, but
He also had a great right foot,
Which oft is overlooked by commentators.
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I won’t pretend that every time
He played, he reached that perfect prime.
Certain games he barely got a mention.
But no-one else possessed his vision,
Passed with such direct incision
Or drew the least discerning fan’s attention.
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For fifteen years he gave his all,
Answering the Gaelic call,
Except when he was injured or suspended.
And football is a cruel game,
For Ireland’s greatest success came,
Just as Chippie’s long career ended.
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