Losing to Bohs

It isn’t quite the deepest of our woes,
It’s somewhat untraumatic, I suppose,
To lose a League Cup fixture to the Bohs.

At other times we’ve writhed in fevered throes,
Shivering from our temples to our toes,
Assailed by hosts of bitter-minded foes
Like ghoulish rooks and sombre hooded crows,
That from the seeds of jealousy arose
When we were overstretched. And goodness knows,
Within the scheme of things, defeat to Bohs
Just merits one small line of sorry prose
Upon the tide of fortune’s ebbs and flows.
Sometimes you lose. And that’s the way it goes
And, beaten in the League Cup by a nose
Won’t count as one of Shelbourne’s deepest lows,
For, though we’re feeling somewhat bellicose
That things did not turn out the way we chose,
We shouldn’t stir unduly in repose,
But lie abed, at peace and comatose,
Saving stress for far more fiercer blows
Than losing in the League Cup versus Bohs.