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I woke up this mornin’,
Yeah I went downstairs and turned on the news.
The memory soon dawnin’,
Pat Dolan victorious, to give him his dues.
Oh Lord, heed my warnin’,
I’ve got the Cork-City-are-pullin’ –at-my-trouser-leg-like-an-irritatin’-Jack-Russell Blues.
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My sweet wife said, “Honey,
You came in last night with a bad smell of booze.
Do you want your egg runny?”
But my stomach said, “Son, you’ve just gotta refuse.”
Oh Lord, it ain’t funny,
I’ve got the Cork-City-are-breathin’-down-my-neck-like-a-big-hairy-monster Blues.
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The City keep rollin’,
They cannot recall what it feels like to lose,
Just passing and strollin’,
And taking the glory that vict’ry accrues.
Oh Lord, that bell’s tollin’,
I’ve got the Jump-into-bed-before-the-Big-Bad-Bogey-Man-reaches-out-and-grabs-my-ankle- Blues.
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I tried to write a song,
But I can’t get in touch with that ol’ Rhymin’ Muse,
I’m tryin’ to git along,
But I knows that bad fortune does not come in twos,
Oh Lord, am I wrong,
To have the Sweet-Jesus-why-can’t-we-just-win-the-league-by-twenty-eight-points-and-have-done-with-it Blues?
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Was hoppin’ about like distraught kangaroos.
Their efforts were blighted,
And many now sport a metaphorical bruise.
Oh Lord, I’m delighted,
But I’ve still got the It-wasn’t-a-particularly-inspirin’-or-convincin’ victory-over-the Blues.
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The tempers are frayin’,
And any more sparks will be hard to diffuse,
The hound dogs are bayin’,
Jus’ inches away from the soles of our shoes.
Oh Lord, my mind’s strayin’,
I’ve got the Bleedin’-Macedonians-come-up-and-score-from-a-corner-in-the-ninety-third-minute Blues.
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Shels and Cork City
Get along like Hezbollah and the West Bank Jews,
Remarks have been gritty
And threads on the boards are attracting long queues.
Oh Lord, show some pity
I’ve got the Remember-going-down-two-one-on-the-last-day-of-the-season-in Oriel-in ninety-eight Blues.
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The touchpaper’s lightin’,
And coming so close to igniting the fuse,
Some say its excitin’,
But Shelbourne supporters just cannot enthuse.
Oh Lord, help us fightin’,
I’ve got the Oh-my-God-next-Saturday-could-be-the-blackest-day-of-my-life Blues.
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My hand’s started shakin’,
And a cut throat razor’s one thing I daren’t use
My wife’s heart is breakin’
For I’ve now grown a beard just like Ronnie Drew’s.
Oh Lord, you’re forsakin’
Me and my Have-we-got-enough-petrol-in-the-tank-to-get-us-to-the-next-station Blues.
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My head’s a volcano,
With a hole in the top from which hot lava spews.
My wife, I think, may know
That something is wrong, ‘cos I can’t eat her stews.
I just gotta say no,
For I’ve got the Surely-if-there’s a God-in-heaven-he-wouldn’t-let-such-a-hellish-thing-happen Blues.