Thursday, October 25, 2007

With O’Leary in the Grave

Behind the couch, I watch him slowly
Place the ball upon the spot.
By the Lord of all thing’s holy,
He will miss it, sure as not.
Who decided he should take
This most important penalty?
A quarter final place at stake,
The populace in agony.
George Hamilton is commentating,
Cue: “A nation holds its breath!”
And he isn’t overstating,
This is really sudden death.
As he runs, my wife’s eyes wince,
My mother cowers behind the door,
My heart knots up like never since,
Georgie Boy lets out a roar.
Now O’Leary’s on his knees,
Throws his arms into the air,
Joy in the Genoan breeze,
This is much too much to bear.
Dancing round and round the telly,
Giving mother-in-law a hug,
Thighbones twitching like a jelly,
Collapsing breathless on the rug.

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