Shed a Tear for Roy Maurice Keane

Who’s that in the gutter, his suit thin and bare,
That stubbled young man with the destitute air?
Oh throw him a shilling, poor Roy has to eke
A living on sixty six thousand a week.

‘Tis sad this poor man has to travel abroad,
A sizeable pay cut his only reward.
Old Trafford is gone now, the future is bleak
On a miserable sixty six thousand a week.

How can he weather the financial heat,
This once wealthy man down and out in the street?
No hope of maintaining his former physique
On a miserly sixty six thousand a week.

So hold Roy to your hearts, wipe that tear from his face,
Don’t laugh when recalling his sad fall from grace.
Oh please, Dermot Desmond, please would you not tweak
That figure of sixty six thousand a week?

The Valu of a Gud Edukashun

When I was a child,
I was feisty and wild,
At times somewhat out of control.
The time spent rebelling
And shouting and yelling
Fatigued my inquisitive soul.
In school I was ‘poor’
And ‘Could well achieve more,’
But though teachers might try to cajole,
My short-sighted reliance
On open defiance,
In truth, took a very great toll.

They warned me, of course,
After trying brute force,
That life, I would find, was no stroll.
And refusing to study
Like some goodie-goodie,
Was neither too bright nor too droll.
I’d end up, they said,
With no springs in my bed,
And no sugar to put in my bowl,
And because I’d no job,
I’d be short the few bob
To buy luxury items like coal.

Well I paid no attention,
Spent years in detention,
And eventually ran from that hole.
And I’ve worked all my life,
And I found a good wife,
And I now play a fatherly role.
And Brian Kerr is conferred
With degrees, so I’ve heard,
And he smilingly clutches his scroll,
But academic esteem
Isn’t all it might seem,
For he still stands in line for the dole.

The Vacant Ireland Manager’s Job

(for vacant Ireland managers)

There hasn’t been a wealth of applications,
No lines of people queuing for the post.
So many men have valid reservations,
Pretending they are otherwise engrossed.

The usual names have all been widely bandied,
Like Venables, O’Leary and O’Neill.
But each has left the FAI quite stranded,
Declining to shake hands upon a deal.

No longer are we first or second seeded,
In fact, we’re down to third, or even fourth.
A strong man at the helm is what is needed,
Or else we’re going to struggle like the North.

Everybody’s turning a cold shoulder,
The barge-poles surfaced after the first minute.
The FAI’s compiling a big folder,
But currently there’s only one name in it.

So come on, all you managers and coaches,
Ensure the FAI don’t draw a blank.
Accept if someone makes the right approaches,
Or else they’re going to give the job to Frank.

Next Year’s Summer Holidays

Our World Cup dream has proved to be unfounded,
It’s fallen like a fragile autumn leaf.
The good ship Brian Kerr is truly grounded,
Holed earlier, upon the Israel reef.
The buoyant Swiss did not intend to harm us,
Although they caused this nation untold grief,
For, like the most incompetent of farmers,
The lads again did not produce the beef.
The Swiss rolled into town, with cowbells clanking,
And stole our thunder like a brazen thief.
Hartey’s header promised a good spanking,
But then we seemed to lack some self-belief.
The national press conducted a post-mortem,
And called for abdication of the Chief,
The prospect of a long and gloomy autumn
Does not provide the country with relief.
Our plan of going back to Gelsenkirchen
Was far too unsubstantial and too brief,
So let’s get down to nine months solid workin’
And then take two weeks off -
In Tenerife.

Twinkle Twinkle Stephen Carr

Twinkle twinkle Stephen Carr,
Now we know just what you are,
Leave the international stage
At twenty nine short years of age,
Twinkle twinkle Stephen Carr,
Greed has just eclipsed your star.

It Ain’t You Brian

(once again, apologies to Bob Dylan. Feel free to use any of my stuff, Bob)
.
Go lightly from the ledge, Brian,
Jump at your own chosen speed.
No time to fudge and hedge, Brian,
You’re not the one they need.
They say they’re looking for a man
To play a blinding game,
Someone who’ll do whate’er he can
To bring this county fame,
Someone to qualify and more,
But it ain’t you, Brian,
No, no, no,
It ain’t you, Brian,
It ain’t you they’re looking for, Brian.

The World Cup dream is gone, Brian,
You’ve left us as fourth seeds.
The new sun has not shone, Brian,
In thought or words or deeds.
They say they’re looking for a man
To mould a brand new team
Someone who’ll do whate’er he can
To bring us home the dream.
Someone who’ll make us regularly score,
But it ain’t you, Brian,
No, no, no,
It ain’t you, Brian,
It ain’t you they’re looking for, Brian.

An Outstanding Contribution

John Delaney’s a man of great elocution,
Though others might call it great guff.
Though it’s obvious, Brian, your “outstanding contribution,”
Just wasn’t outstanding enough.

Dunphy, Giles and Brady

Beware the three wise monkeys
On the television panel,
Attention-grabbing flunkeys
Who dish out the well-worn flannel.
They wallow in hyperbole
For reasons dark and shady,
Both orally and verbally,
Thay’s Dunphy, Giles and Brady.

No-one may contradict them,
They’re the experts in their trade.
The moguls who have picked them
Have no cause to be dismayed.
They vent their righteous fury
Like a scorned and jealous lady.
Hangman, judge and jury –
That is Dunphy, Giles and Brady.

Time has changed them greatly,
They are harsh and unforgiving.
They haven’t played much lately,
Just kill chickens for a living.
They mouth the word ‘atrocity’
Like some grotesque Kate Adie,
The masters of pomposity –
That’s Dunphy, Giles and Brady.

Three Oul’ Lads

Brian eyed the body and
Wrote down the time they’d found it.
Then, magnifying glass in hand,
He scoured the ground around it.
Hours and hours, on hands and knees,
He searched till he was blue.
Three oul’ lads watched and one said, “Jeez,
He hasn’t got a clue.”

Brian checked the headstones but
The grave remained elusive.
He scoured the graveyard, foot by foot,
But that was inconclusive.
He’d come to visit, unprepared,
And could not find the spot.
Three oul’ lads watched, and one declared,
“This guy has lost the plot.”

Brian came across some stags –
Alas, the beasts were blind.
He draped them all in Irish flags –
They didn’t seem to mind.
Their blindness did seem quite pronounced,
While wand’ring far and near.
Three oul’ lads watched and one announced
“This man has No-eye deer.”

.

Cyprus 0 Ireland 1

Cyprus 0 Ireland 1

Robbie Keane’s stretch, and Elliott’s swivel,
Followed by eighty five minutes of drivel.
And but for some quite inspirational keeping,
The country would be uncontrollably weeping.
The magnificent Cypriots, hardly world-beaters,
Were very unfortunate not to defeat us.
They tore us wide open and carved out great chances,
And led our defenders some merry old dances,
While we were unable to find any rhythm
And didn’t seem able to trade tackles with ‘em.
Our midfield was guileless and showed no invention,
And seemed to be focussed on damage prevention.
So many times we conceded possession,
We started suspecting divine intercession.
Tactically weak, we seemed badly outnumbered,
Letting the Cypriots break unencumbered.
But Fortune smiled on us, and flattered us greatly,
Which, to be frank, hasn’t happened much lately.
And though we were still outmanoeuvred concisely,
Same again Wednesday will do very nicely.

Robbie Keane (Aged 10)

“That’s a very nice picture,” the schoolteacher said,
“But the goalie looks somewhat disjointed.
Why does he have such an angular head?
And why are his features so pointed?”

It appeared that young Robbie did not understand,
The lines on his brow furrowed deeper.
Then he took an eraser and pencil in hand,
And skilfully rounded the keeper.

Metatarsally

Metatarsally crushed,
Metatarsally thrown,
Our chances and hopes
Metatarsally blown.
Four million people
All cursing that bone,
The seeds of despair
Metatarsally sown.
In buses and shops, we
Metatarsally moan,
The eagle has sadly
Metatarsally flown.

.

Roy's injured!

Five Whole Days Before the Match

There are journalists, I’m told, who like a drink.
(At least, that’s what a lot of people think.)
No more or less than any great profession,
I’m sure they like to go and have a session.

I’d question any journalist with sense –
If they’d a deadline coming five days hence,
When asked out for a drink, would they say, “No!
How could I with a mere five days to go?”

And yet, as we prepared to meet the French,
A section of the press kicked up a stench,
When several players were spotted on the town,
Five whole days before the match went down.

With moralistic anger, they enquired
Was such behaviour what the team required?
How could we hope to beat Zidane and Co.
By drinking with a mere five days to go?

A lot of people found it quite amusing
That much was made of premature boozing.
For even in the most besotted haze,
Hangovers rarely last for five whole days.

Such ludicrous attacks are often hurled
By headline seekers in the tabloid world.
But, over here in Ireland, well, somehow
We’ve managed to avoid it. Until now.

Oh Lord, is this the shape of things to come,
That journalists in Ireland must succumb
To pressure to increase their paper’s sales,
By fabricating inauspicious tales?

.

Ireland 0 France 1

Ireland 0 France 1

The people gasped when Robbie Keane
Emerged from Lansdowne Road.
What a bad night it had been,
And in his face it showed.
The disappointment in his eyes,
The frown upon his face,
Just made spectators realise
That smiles were out of place.
But that was not the reason why
The people stopped and stared,
For Robbie looked a bit awry,
Red-faced and tousle-haired.
The pain! The pain was quite acute,
And if that weren’t enough,
All across his mohair suit
Were tiny bits of fluff.
It looked as though he’d fallen in
A vacuum cleaner bag
Or else a massive rubbish bin
(Said one observant wag)
Sticky sweets were interspersed
Among the balls of fluff,
With yellow tissues all immersed
In gunky, yellow stuff.
For several seconds no-one spoke,
No words were said aloud.
Then finally, a small voice broke
The silence of the crowd.
“What happened Robbie?” said the man
With journalistic clearance.
“Why do you display such an
Incredible appearance?”
Robbie gave a sheepish grin
And answered loud and strong –
“Lilian Thuram had me in
His pocket all night long.”

.

Ireland 0 France 1

Ireland 1 Italy 2

The stage had been set, the orchestra waited,
This play had been eagerly anticipated.
The crowd took their seats in the gods and the stalls,
Sporadically making encouraging calls.
But when the play started, the acting looked stilted,
The pressure seemed such that performances wilted.
The mob showed displeasure; they were not deriving
Much joy from the glut of theatrical diving,
And in the first act, there were plenty of signs
That several on stage hadn’t studied their lines.
The interval came, and observers remarked
Performances, sadly, had not really sparked.
The second half started, and Duff pulled the strings,
Inspiring all those who looked on from the wings.
But generally though, the interest faded,
Delivery and presence were muted and jaded.
The curtain came down on this night of frustration,
And no-one took part in a standing ovation.
But despite the sharp pain of this sudden reversal,
We must not forget this was just a rehearsal.
The wizened director can still put things right,
Though there’s only three weeks until opening night.

Zinedine, Me Old Mate

Zinedine, me old mate, would you not reconsider?
Are you sure your decision can really hold water?
You’re now coming out of retirement amid a
Great fanfare of praise from the Gallic supporter.
But comebacks are rarely, if ever, successful,
The pressure is on, expectation is stressful.
Do you think you’re still fit enough, hungry and lean?
Oh enjoy your retirement, my dear Zinedine.

Zinedine, me old mate, would you not think again?
Whose place will you take when you’re picked for Les Bleus?
Will a young lad be scarred by emotional pain
If you don’t keep your word and bid World Cups adieu?
Look into your heart, and be honest and truthful,
The World stage needs talent that’s vibrant and youthful.
Just play for Madrid and forget the French scene.
You’ve earned your retirement, my dear Zinedine.

Zinedine, me old mate, do the scars take long healing?
Oh please don’t make one of life’s biggest mistakes.
Push away that insistent, but ludicrous, feeling
That in your old age, you’ve still got what it takes.
Are you tired, stiff and sore? Do your muscles ache daily?
Do you swap war-wound stories with Claude Makelele?
Come on now, let’s face it, you’re not Gary Breen,
So stay in retirement, my dear Zinedine.

Zinedine, me old mate, you’re a legend in France,
Like Maurice Chevalier and Danny la Rue.
Why risk the acclaim on the very off-chance
That maybe, just maybe, your country needs you?
So if you have plans to play Ireland this Autumn,
Perhaps ‘twould be best if you chose to abort ‘em.
Do you relish the prospect of facing Roy Keane?
Coming out of retirement
Is not a requirement,
So remain in retirement, my dear Zinedine.

Robbie Keane Aged 13

The teacher set a nasty sum,
To do with finding profit.
But it was much too hard for some,
And many cried “Come off it!”

Several tried to work it out,
And some got very close,
But many were unsure about
Nett profit or the gross.

This profit question made them groan,
And caused a few to sweat.
Several found the gross, but on-
-Ly Robbie found the nett.

Upon a Windswept Limestone Rock / At Least

Upon a windswept limestone rock
That juts out of the ocean,
Where swirling, gliding gannets flock
With custom’ry commotion,
Where tourists have no need to block
The sun with balming lotion,
We all received a well-earned shock
To prick our deep devotion.

We watched the ticking of the clock
With nervous hesitation,
The goal-less scoreline seemed to mock
Our World Cup aspiration.
These prodigies of fishing stock
Withstood our exhortation,
Till Hartey’s penno did unlock
Relief and jubilation.

'

At Least

.

We had a fair array of shots,
But most went wide or over.
We could have tied them up in knots
To leave us in the clover.
A two nil win inspired lots
Of railing ‘gainst Jehovah,
But at least we’re better than the Scots
Who drew against Moldova.

.

Faroe Islands 0 Ireland 2

Not God’s Chosen People

God’s Chosen People, we are not,
For Thou hast tricked us neatly.
The Israelites just picked their spot
And scuppered us completely.

We played our part, and praised Thy Name
With music and with banners,
Our voices soared throughout the game
Proclaiming loud hosannahs.

We welcomed back the Sacred Harte
From Spanish isolation.
The Messiah, though, could play no part,
And watched with consternation.

At first you let things take their course,
Not seeking the attention,
But two quick lightning strikes did force
You into intervention.

Into the large Israeli goal
You rolled a massive boulder,
And then you managed to extol
The pain of Robbie’s shoulder.

You blew the ball into our net,
You caused O’Shea to stumble,
And then you snuffed each rising threat,
Surprised that we might grumble!

We sensed another presence there
Beside that black-clad goalie,
Protecting Israel’s goal with care,
Thy breath so strong and holy.

You stood there in the Hebrew goal,
Behind the men of Zion,
Relishing thy last-man role
And banishing O’Brien.

Whenever we seemed sure to score,
Thy guiding hand did thwart us,
We gnashed our teeth till they were sore
And offered up our daughters.

I’ve never been too zealous, just
Sarcastic and satirical,
But how we failed to beat them must
Be marked down as a miracle.

Our journey to the Promised Land
Is merely an illusion.
Our tribe’s beset by self-doubt and
Unusual confusion.

Oh Lord, Thou hast forsaken us
And cast us from Thy glory,
Thy mighty plan has shaken us
And spoiled this wondrous story.

Our idols were all made of clay,
False prophets to the nation.
We rent our garments in dismay
And showed great consternation.

For we are wretched in Thy sight,
With fealty that wavers.
Take pity on our abject plight –
Send ten Roy Keanes to save us.

.

Ireland 2 Israel 2

By The Rivers of Babylon

Eamonn started to babble on,
He wore that frown,
Yea we wept
When he dismembered Brian.

He said,
"Where was all the creativity
Required to break them down?
Now how shall we sing "The Fields"
In a strange land?

Oh, the moans of your mouth
And the lamentations of your heart
Aren't acceptable in our sight
Here tonight."

.

Ireland 2 Israel 2