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.