The die is cast
From the island’s opposite ends
We’re just like long lost friends
We’ve both had our ups and our downs
Shared stories in copious rounds
The Lodge in March of eighty six,
Hennesseys goal, a teenage kick
Three years later, haunts like a ghost
Dave Barrys shot, came off the post
November two thousand and five
The greatest night ever alive
The Shed packed to the end of its tether
As we laughed and we cried all together
Some have our City infiltrated
Still these folks must be translated
Whatever the Sit-she-a-shun
Text message might be need to be done.
Our moment of glory converging
Can you see the pattern emerging?
We’ve won it first in eighty seven
Kieran Myers showed us heaven
Twelve years later in ninety nine
Hargies finish was so sublime
Another twelve have now since passed
The cup is ours, the die is cast.
This poem was submitted to the FAI for the League Cup Final Programme on Saturday next.
We've always had great relations with our northern friends, in fact we've even taken in a few strays over the years. Mind you we still haven't a clue what they're saying.
The picture above was taken in Derry in 2006 after the last game of the season at a time when Derry owned the trophy, here's hoping for green ribbons on Saturday night.
P.S. I've taken poetic licence in forgetting our 1996 victory in Dundalk.