Thursday, October 25, 2007

The Submarine Bar

The Submarine Bar is up for sale,
A snip at fifteen million.
The price would make the nerve ends quail
For many a Joe or Gillian.

Located out in Walkinstown,
The place is often swaying,
For that is where the craic goes down,
Whenever Ireland’s playing.

The three-toned hats are on display,
Like something from the Tweenies,
The oul’ wans sing Olé Olé,
And sip their dry martinis.

All faces cricked up in the air
To watch the television,
They tear their hair out in despair
At every bad decision.

And if it’s an important match,
Then RTE comes calling,
Trying very hard to catch
The sense that it’s enthralling.

The lads all brandish pints of beer,
And spill slops on their bellies,
And if we score, they give a cheer
And shout out at the tellies.

The pub has come to symbolise
The modern day supporter,
Who watches games through square-shaped eyes
While lowering the porter.

He’s Irish as his pint of stout,
He roars on Ireland’s goals,
But when the weekend comes, he’ll shout
For Larsson, Giggs and Scholes.

For football’s best when it is viewed
On thirty six inch screen.
The atmosphere’s far better, dude,
Down in the Submarine.

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