Friday, 7 September 2012

Through a young boys eyes

Through a young boys eyes.
Are we still eighth in the table dad?
My small lad asked of me.
We are, I said with heavy heart
Curse of the devotee

He’s witnessed 12 home games this year
He’s cheered and clapped like me.
But left mostly in sadness
We’ve won only the three

When he walks back in the door
His mother asks the score
“Disaster mam” he utters
As more points drain down the shore

And just like his dear old dad
He won’t stop going to games
Cos we support Cork City
Though our season is in flames

And if we lose another few
I’ll elucidate just why?
Players, Gaffers, come and go
But we’re City ‘til we die
Still eighth with the teams below us closing fast.
We could be in trouble if we don't win a match soon.

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