Last night, as I lay in my bed,
Awaiting sleep’s delicious call,
A question popped into my head.
“Just suppose,” this small voice said
“That Shelbourne did go to the wall.
What team would you support instead?”
“Dunno,” I answered, full of dread.
“Why would you ask me that at all,
A loyal and devoted Red?”
“Just answer!” (I will call him Fred,
This voice that through my mind did crawl)
“Would you frequent the Richmond shed?”
“I think I would be better dead!
The thought does verily appal!”
I answered, as fence-sitting fled.
Rovers? Bohs? The panic spread.
Cork or Derry? Bray? Fingal?
Not one, I thought, from A to Zed.
But then, as I lay in my bed,
Still waiting sleep’s delicious call,
The answer popped into my head.
“The Mons!” I yelled, “though they’ve no ped-
-Igree, nor any trophy haul,
And I’m not Ulster-born nor bred,
They’re who I’d support instead,
If mighty Shels should ever fall.
Now, go and get some shut-eye, Fred.”
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