Watching my ancestral homeland lose
another game of continental footie
at least serves as a good enough excuse

to quaff a few cold beers. Italian ’90
was lost in the mist of my teenage angst,
and so, like those inebriate Japanese

who toast the blown blossom’s evanescence,
I toast the sharpness of Ukrainian grass,
our defence with more holes than a tramps pants,

the world can kiss my plastic paddy arse.


1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Jul 06, 2012 @ 00:16:57

    Thanks Niall… next time I write a poem containing grass I wont be stuck for a rhyme.
    If it’s any consolation England were equally crap and that git Rooney didn’t even try.


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