Dear oh dear

Dear, oh dear, that was humiliating.

That really wasn't very good, I fear.

Reus and Őzil bossed us,

made us feel we were imposters

and the mauling dished out cost us dear, oh dear.

Jesus Christ, now that was an embarrassment

as through our ranks they effortlessly sliced.

They were standing round and joking,

some were drinking schnapps and smoking

and we ended up invoking Jesus Christ.

A mauling was what the Germans gave us.

The gulf in class was utterly appalling.

We dithered convolutedly,

bewildered fans gazed mutedly

on what was undisputedly a mauling.

Consolation? Well, the teamwork of the Germans

was worthy of grudging-given ovation.

Little Big Horn? General Custer?

They exposed our brawn and bluster

and our final goal was just a consolation.

Ambition now is just to finish second

if we can bounce back from this attrition.

For it wasn't very nice now

and it’s hard to give advice now.

Paddy Power, son, what price now our ambition?

Ireland 1 Germany 6 (WC 2014 Qualifier)

Haiku

Long balls Given away.
Keane but never in the Hunt.
Performances Duff.

Five seconds of fame

Five seconds of fame, you’re up on the big screen.

Yes, you, the one who can’t believe his eyes,

with silly hat and face all painted green.

The game itself is mundane and routine.

(The whistle blows more than you realise.)

Five seconds of fame, you’re up on the big screen.

It takes some time to lose your puzzled sheen

before you jump and holler with surprise,

with silly hat and face all painted green.

You shake the girlfriend till she bursts her spleen,

pointing wildly up into the skies.

Five seconds of fame! You’re up on the big screen!

But by the time she’s clued in to the scene,

the camera’s panned away to other guys

with silly hats and faces painted green.

You hope it’s taped, and no-one wipes it clean,

so you can reminisce when old and wise.
Five seconds of fame, we were up on the big screen.
with silly hats and faces painted green.

Italy 2 Ireland 0

It’s the end of the Euros as we know it.
When we needed it fast, we chose to slow it.
The gulf was too great for us to row it.
The grass was too long for us to mow it.
The rip was too large for us to sew it.
Our baggage was too big for us to stow it.
We had to play our best. We played below it.
It was hard for the fanciful poet.
We bought champagne but had to forego it.
We were downcast but chose not to show it.
The performance improved much, although it
sometimes seemed we were trying to throw it.
We’d a free kick but couldn’t Pirlo it.
We’d a dream but conspired to blow it.
Yes, it’s the end of the Euros as we know it
and I feel...

Oh Lord

Oh Lord, give us something to shout about,
to make us forget all our woes.
Something we’ll be able to spout about
wherever the sweet Guinness flows.
A deft Houghton header?
A great Whelan screamer?
Am I too demanding?
Am I just a dreamer?
Oh Lord, give us something to shout about,
to make us forget all our woes.

Oh Lord, give us something to scream about
amid all the trouble and strife.
Something that we all can dream about
when we’re making love to the wife.
A Sheedy grass-cutter?
A Niall Quinn tap-in?
An O’Leary peno?
Oh please make it happen.
Oh Lord, give us something to scream about
amid all the trouble and strife.


Oh Lord, give us something to talk about
and we promise we’ll stay clear of sin.
Oh, don’t let our defence go walkabout
and don’t let an early goal in.
A Ray Houghton volley?
A Robbie Keane rocket?
A Gary Breen flick on?
Oh don’t let them block it.
Oh Lord, give us something to talk about
and we promise we’ll stay clear of sin.

The Fields in Gdansk

Outplayed, outclassed, outsmarted,
the Irish team kept fighting.
All hope had long departed,
the wall replete with writing.


Downcast, distraught, dejected,
we watched the savage mauling.
Our rear was not protected.
The Spanish wolves came crawling.


But then we were dumbfounded
as church bells started ringing.
A mighty roar resounded –
ten thousand voices singing.

Neck-hairs stood to attention.
No longer were we dismayed.
We signalled our intention,
although outclassed and outplayed.


Written in response to Kerry's challenge to write a Celtic quatrain at Toads

Bigmouth strikes yet again

I really don’t care what Roy Keane says.
I really don’t care very much.
He’ll rant and he’ll rave
till he goes to the grave.
Now he’s telling the Irish fans how to behave.
Oh, I really don’t care what Roy Keane says
because he is so out of touch.

I really don’t care what Roy Keane says
to get himself back in the news.
He’ll walk his damned pup
and he’ll never shut up
until by some miracle we win the World Cup.
Oh, I really don’t care what Roy Keane says
and I don’t give a damn for his views.

I really don’t care what Roy Keane says.
I don’t want to hear the man speak.
This is the man
wouldn’t play in Iran,
then threw a big hissy fit out in Saipan.
No, I really don’t care what Roy Keane says.
The man has a terrible cheek.

I really don’t care what Roy Keane says.
I really don’t care what he does.
His comments mean naught to me.
This poem seems short to me
(Where the traitor’s concerned, maybe that’s how it ought to be)
No, I really don’t care what Roy Keane says
for Roy doesn’t represent us.

Roy criticises Irish team and, bizarrely, Irish fans for their sing-song mentality. Both team and fans, he said, need to change their attitude. Maybe instead of singing in defeat, the fans should go on the rampage, or slink silently away?