The Demise of the Dubs

So sad! The blue and navy flags
Have all been taken down,
No sign of all those Dublin wags
Across the pubs in town.
The dreams of Sam have faltered
And they troop back into work.
The mood has greatly altered
And I’m trying not to smirk.

My wife is Dublin born and bred –
We have our vocal tussles.
She says I should live in a shed,
I ask her for some mussels.
But, like her fellow city folk,
Today she’s all done in,
And I light up another smoke
And try hard not to grin.

Each year the Dubs espouse the view
That this could be their season.
Their optimism sparkles through,
Without recourse to reason.
But once again, they’re second best,
Again they’ve missed the boat.
Each August time, they get depressed –
It’s so hard not to gloat.

Why do people love to see
The Jackeens getting pipped?
They dance around the pubs with glee
Whenever Dublin’s whipped.
One shouldn’t laugh when they are panned,
One really should be bigger,
But Jeez, one’s only human and
One’s trying not to snigger.

Their population’s treble that
Of any other county,
But every year, the champagne’s flat,
Without that yearned-for bounty.
Tyrone enthralled the nation
They were hungrier and fitter.
It’s a sad, sad situation
And I’m trying not to titter.

The further that the Jackeens go
Within the competition,
The louder are their wails of woe,
On seeing their demolition.
The rest enjoy the yearly show
Whenever Dublin blow it.
Oh yes, it’s very sweet although
I’m trying not to show it.