Thursday, November 8, 2007

Where Do You Go To, Brian Kerr?

You talk like Dustin the Turkey,
And you shoot like Diana Ross,
Your clothes, they are all made by Umbro,
For you are the Irish team boss,
Yes, you are.

You talked to the wee Mayfield bollix,
When all thoughts of a comeback were gone,
Yet you gave Jason Byrne just four minutes,
Your loveliness goes on and on,
Yes, it does,

So where do you go to, my lovely,
When you are quite on your tod?
Tell me your selection criteria,
I want to get picked for your squad,
Yes I do.

And in winter, you’re found in RTE,
With the rest of The Donnybrook set,
And you swallow Eamonn Dunphy’s water,
But you never get your lips wet,
No, you don’t.

They say that when you leave Ireland,
You will go to Real Madrid,
Where the grass as they say, will be greener,
And you won’t be short a few quid

Oh, where do you go to, my lovely,
When you are quite on your tod?
Tell me your selection criteria,
I want to get picked for your squad,
Yes I do.

I remember the back streets of Ballyer,
Two children, begging for fags,
Scutting along on the buses,
And stealing the hubcaps off Jags.

I know where you go to, Brian Kerr,
Ireland’s new footballing God.
I know many secrets about you,
So won’t you pick me in your squad?

No comments: