The end of our season?

The optimists tell me I ought to believe,
But after Dundalk, sure, I just want to grieve.
How we’ll get promoted is hard to conceive,
Defying all logical reason.
I’m a mis’rable sod, wear my heart on my sleeve,
And it looks like the end of our season.

The damage was caused in our midseason slump.
It took us too long to get over the hump.
When it started to rain, we could not find the pump,
Though to say so was very near treason.
Our aces were no match ‘gainst Dundalk’s late trump
That effectively finished our season.

To look at the table, they’re too far in front.
That recent defeat means we’re out of the hunt.
Our defence was too porous, our attack was too blunt.
The footballing gods need appeasin’.
Ideas were reduced to the long hopeful punt
And its spelling the end of our season.

And so, as we’ve sown now, we surely shall reap.
Our boat is too flimsy, the water’s too deep.
The hare gives a laugh and the tortoise a cheep,
There’s no word yet that Hell might be freezin’.
Crawley and Giller will not fall asleep
And be caught at the end of the season.

But football, I’m told, is a funny old game.
A horse on the gallop may well pull up lame
The moth can’t give up, he must seek out the flame,
The north wind shows no sign of easin’.
Failure might hurt but it doesn’t bring shame
If we fight till the end of the season.