Trawling back through my archive, I tried to find an appropriate Good Friday poem. This is the best of a bad lot I'm afraid! For those not in Ireland, all pubs are shut on Good Friday and, although I'm no longer much of a drinker, to me its the one day of the year I could murder a pint!Incidentally Dublin City are now defunct. Shels are playing Finn Harps tonight but as I'm in work, the closed bar will be immaterial.
Shelbourne 1 Dublin City 0
Good Friday, down at Tolka Park,
All sober and refined,
And one would think the thought of drink
Was furthest from our mind.
O’Neill was playing with spirit,
Stout in mind and limb.
The Viking backs, so full of cracks,
Were just small beer to him.
Dublin City were wasting time,
Though ordered to refrain.
It seemed quite rum how they’d succumb
And roll round in sham pain.
At last we scotched the rumours that
Our strike-force had no power.
O’Neill’s head put that to bed
In-cider half an hour.
The east coast of the ground was hot,
Young Ollie earned his moolah.
There was no draught, so he came aft
And found the west coast cooler.
‘Ale and ‘earty was the ref,
Quite fit and doing fine,
Then, quite bitter, he turned quitter,
With but a little wine.
Our dominance was absolut,
Their strikeforce was too blunt.
In fact they got no decent shot
Just lacking punch up front.
Poor Dermot harped and yelled and moaned
As only Dermot can,
And in the end, he had to bend –
A sad, Budweiser man.
Good Friday, down at Tolka Park,
All sober and refined,
And one would think the thought of drink
Was furthest from our mind.
Good Friday, down at Tolka Park,
All sober and refined,
And one would think the thought of drink
Was furthest from our mind.
O’Neill was playing with spirit,
Stout in mind and limb.
The Viking backs, so full of cracks,
Were just small beer to him.
Dublin City were wasting time,
Though ordered to refrain.
It seemed quite rum how they’d succumb
And roll round in sham pain.
At last we scotched the rumours that
Our strike-force had no power.
O’Neill’s head put that to bed
In-cider half an hour.
The east coast of the ground was hot,
Young Ollie earned his moolah.
There was no draught, so he came aft
And found the west coast cooler.
‘Ale and ‘earty was the ref,
Quite fit and doing fine,
Then, quite bitter, he turned quitter,
With but a little wine.
Our dominance was absolut,
Their strikeforce was too blunt.
In fact they got no decent shot
Just lacking punch up front.
Poor Dermot harped and yelled and moaned
As only Dermot can,
And in the end, he had to bend –
A sad, Budweiser man.
Good Friday, down at Tolka Park,
All sober and refined,
And one would think the thought of drink
Was furthest from our mind.
Sheer genious! How long did it take you to brew that one up?
ReplyDeleteWell done on beating Finn Harps. Finn Harps!!!!
ReplyDelete