I've seen it all, for I am Roy Keane
Risen from the dead, old man with wrinkled beard,
Can see at the violet hour, the evening fucking hour
Because I do not hope to turn again,
Because I do not hope to tackle,
Because I do not hope,
Desiring Giggsy's gifts and Cantona's scope,
(Why should the agèd eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I fucking mourn
The vanished power of United's reign?
(and I Roy Keane have foresuffered all
have seen it all already), seen it fucking all
And it was noth'n' to be afraid of.
with apologies to T.S. Eliot
nah, fuck that, I'm not apologising to no dead fucking poet, apology withdrawn. What do poets know about football anyway? I was at UCC collecting my doctorate and Brendan Kennelly said to me "reckon Ireland have a good chance of qualifying?"
"You pretentious twat", I thought
etc. etc.