The Ravin' Idiots

Once upon a midnight dreary, while we played, weak and weary,
With many a quaint and curious pass of standard poor
While we plodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a clapping,
As of some one gently slapping, slapping hands for praise of chore.
"'Tis some Colours," I muttered, "clapping praise of skilful chore.
Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak November,
And each separate woeful Green wrought his ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
From my chances surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the loss in store,
For the rare and radiant goals that the Greens were want to score,
Absent then and evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each Green bib
Thrilled me, filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"Shout for it lads, we need to score.
Mark a man and let's have a midfield core;
Step it up and give it more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Tor," said I, "or Fraser, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was grieving, and so gently you came weaving,
And so faintly you came heaving, heaving through the colours core,
That I scarce was sure I saw this"--here they passed the ball on floor
I fecking missed; no change in score.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Plonker?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Plonker!"
Merely this and nothing more.

Darker still with shadows looming, hands on hips and faces brooding,
Heavy-headed Greens grew leaden, leaden from their skill-starved war,
And so it was with whistle's blowing, dejected souls felt dark foreboding,
The colour's danced in victory their might now set in lore.
Their crucifying greatness the Greens could not ignore.
"Bollocks" I say, and nothing more.

But what came of that eerie clapping, likened once to hands a slapping,
Regularly it did come passing, passing into ears now sore,
What cursed bell was damned tolling?; what beast from nadir's depths was calling?
This infernal racket I did intrinsically deplore.
"'Twas the feckin Colours clapping praise for every score.
Only this and nothing more."