Who gives a bloody damn?

Time seemed to stop
As the ball left the ground.
Would the game be a flop
After all?
The ghosts of times past –
They did not make a sound,
All eyes were glued fast
On the ball.

Oh where would it go?
It seemed ‘twas struck true.
Was time ever so slow
In its life?
It ceased to exist,
There was naught we could do.
Was this the last twist
Of the knife?

But it came to land
Short the distance required.
The Triple Crown, and
The Grand Slam!
Our jerseys were muddiest,
Our legs weak and tired.
But who gave the bloodiest
Damn?

When the great bells of Shandon roll into the Lee

Oh Mary McGee, could you kindly explain
Why the Cork hurling saga is still causing pain?
Why are those great hurlers left out on the ditch
When they should be displaying their skills on the pitch?
Oh the men on the Board are still pulling the strings.
It’s always the same when it comes to these things.
Oh when will they sort it out, Mary McGee?
When the great bells of Shandon roll into the Lee.

The life of a hurler is governed by time –
It isn’t too long that they stay in their prime.
And those that were born to pull on the red shirt
Are splattered by old men who dig up the dirt.
The powers weave their webs; they’re the masters of spin,
While the players themselves stand outside looking in.
Oh when will the Board hear the common man’s plea?
When the great bells of Shandon roll into the Lee

Oh Mary, please tell me, I can’t understand
How this sad situation got so out of hand.
A curse upon those on the Cork County Board,
They had an agreement they roundly ignored.
They don’t know the meaning of honour or tact
And have dressed up their sly machinations as fact.
They should be all moth-balled but when will that be?
When the great bells of Shandon roll into the Lee.

The man to be found in the eye of the storm
Has brazened it out in the name of reform.
Why did he accept the position of coach
When he knew the whole squad would reject the approach?
Oh the dogs that inhabit the country and town
Are telling the world that he ought to step down.
But it doesn’t seem likely now, Mary McGee,
‘Less the great bells of Shandon roll into the Lee.

Play sport

“Play sport,” she told him, as he lay there sleeping,
His belly like a jellyfish on heat.
“That blockage of the art’ry will come creeping
If now and then you don’t get on your feet.”

Inscrutable she was, like Mona Lisa,
So he heeded what his good wife has to say,
And now he’s very slim, but never sees ‘er,
The greatest round-world yachtsman of his day.

The Ryder Cup

The Ryder Cup does nothing to enthrall me,
It’s hard to cheer on Spanish, Brits and Swedes.
Europeans oftentimes appal me –
I’m underwhelmed by their titanic deeds.

Of course I want the Yanks to get a hammering.
It’s natural to wish they come to grief.
But allegiance to a continent? I’m stammering
To find the words to show my disbelief.

The downing of Kerry

Did Kerry believe they had just to turn up?
Perhaps, if they’re brutally candid.
But though they had one hand locked hard on the Cup,
The Tyrone lads caught them red-handed

The joy of show jumping

There’s a hush in the crowd
As the hooter blares loud
And the round resolutely commences.
And the rider and horse
Wend their way round the course
Trying not to knock poles down off fences.
And they clear the first three
With a joyful esprit
And ne’er an oul’ pole has been clattered.
Then a clunk and “Four faults!”
As a plywood brick bolts
And you know that their hopes have been shattered.

There’s an audible groan
But at home, on my own,
‘Going apeshit’ is putting it mildly.
And the more they knock down,
The more I go to town,
As I jump in the air, yelling wildly
For there’s no fun, I fear,
When the jumper goes clear –
Far better when Dobbin refuses!
When the rider’s thrown straight
In on top of a gate,
Now that’s when show jumping amuses.

Great skill round the course
On an elegant horse
Might well set the nerve-ends a-jangle,
But its better by far
When a hoof strikes the bar
And the two of them get in a tangle.
When the Queen’s only daughter
Fell into the water
Years ago at the Badminton trials,
Oh the laughter was long,
People burst into song –
‘Twas the best sporting moment by miles.

The Demise of the Winter Olympics

The Winter Olympics are here once more,
Though not as good as heretofore.
There’s not the same excitement here
That I enjoyed in yesteryear.
For, though I still admire the skill,
The ski-ing’s really gone downhill.