So, high and mighty Israel Folau,
You’ve flaming gone and done it now,
Our devout Christian-cum-climate denier
Claims sinfulness leads to forest- and Hellfire.
My flagging faith won’t be restored
By this empty-headed vessel of the Lord,
I pray St Peter has this sermon on record
When Israel goes to his final reward.
But I’ve heard that God does love a trier,
So might this unrepentant soul enquire,
Oh wise and enlightened Israel Folau
Who made you mightier than thou?
Would our mighty All Blacks stack up?
Could our twice World Cup winners back up?
How many points agin the Poms would we rack up?
But those big bad butt-ugly Blighty boys broke our attack up,
An hour in and its either reach for the Prozac or crack up-
At full time its back to the Hotel to weep, then pack up.
The Cup Runneth, Over.
In public houses up and down the Emerald Isle
There’s many a jar of good Guinness been drunk,
But there’s little good cheer, no, there’s nary a smile,
Only tears in the beer on seeing Cup dreams being sunk.
Red And Black And Blue.
Fergie McCormick was hard as nails, tough as teak,
What carnage on the rugby field he would wreak,
Yet he had a charitable as well as a rambunctious streak,
There would always be
A card of sympathy
When you woke up sometime well into next week.
When it comes to his Wallabies Cheika is fiercely protective,
Their unlucky defeats bring on a stream of Coach’s invective,
Likeable Michael knows who to blame for all these defeats,
Touch judges and referees all cheat, he plaintively bleats.
One must feel sorry for the Wallabies on their flight home,
After Scotland, has Mike developed Asperger’s Syndrome?
For his solemnly silent team the non-stop flight is wearing,
Listening to Motormouth Michael’s non-stop swearing.
Rugby player Ali Williams caught buying cocaine in France. Ali is a bit of a lad, but at thirty- five a touch of maturity might be in order. His mate, Aussie James O’Conner is another shining light of reason in the rugby world, so put these two bright sparks together and you get…
That Fine Line.
Out on the town go the bros,
Ali and O’Conner, once bitter foes,
But in Paris that old Anzac spirit shows,
The boys had something in common, I suppose?
Buy, try a little something, after the meal?
Only plain clothes gendarmes think it’s a big deal.
So off to court Ali goes,
The case against Ali evidently grows,
The ruddy face of his Lawyer floridly glows
With a rash of colourful excuses and purple prose.
But one look at His Honour would reveal
That his and O’Conners words hold no appeal.
Sentencing time, and down Ali’s cheek a tear flows,
His hand reached to his breast pocket– then froze,
Even someone as supremely silly as Ali knows
Now is not the time to blow your nose.
Welsh rugby team lose four games in four match tour.
Down, Down In The Valleys.
In the Clubroom at Llanelli a hushed funereal tone
Grips the crowd ‘neath the TV as the final whistle’s blown,
Live in colour, it’s the darkest sight they’ve ever known;
Big Dai Owen steps outside, he needs a moment alone,
He turns his face up and tears rain down that face of stone.
On the flight back to a not-so-welcoming shore
Warren asks a passing hostess for ‘just one more,’
She understands his anguish, she knows the score,
Even at thirty thousand feet he can’t get off the floor,
Three Test defeats and Gatland’s gazing at the door.