An Spailpín Fánach is not a happy camper this morning. The stilly night of Dublin was rent by twin cracks at half-nine last Saturday - the first caused by the sound of 5,000 cans of Dutch Gold being opened simultaneously by the locals in celebration of their comprehesive tonking of the sweet county Mayo, and the second by the sound of all Mayo's hard work of the league so far going straight into the bin. And this morning, it got worse - Uncle Eugene performs an autopsy on the Green and Red remains in this morning's Indo and doesn't much care for what he sees, while Tom Humphries makes a fool of himself over in the Times, singing the blues once more.
And far off in the West, Galway stormed through hapless Meath in a scintillating performance that, combined with last week's no-less scintillating performance, indicates the Maroon Machine is beginning to purr at just the right time. What can your Spailpín Fánach do but cast his eyes to Heaven, send sincerest apologies to Franklin P. Adams, and then sing this pangyric to our new Gods and Masters, against whom all resistance is futile: Michael Meehan, Derek Savage and Padraic Joyce.
Meehan and Savage and Joyce
Three musketeers of Gaillimh are waiting:
Meehan and Savage and Joyce.
Three executioners, and no strangers to bating:
Meehan and Savage and Joyce.
Three bad hombres, and ready to battle,
To storm old Mayo, and make off with our cattle,
With nothing left but the sound of death's rattle -
Meehan and Savage and Joyce.
We met them last year when the was sun was hot shining,
Meehan and Savage and Joyce.
McDanger was held and Mayo shipped a hiding:
Meehan and Savage and Joyce.
They're all set again to do damage most dreadful,
And the county Mayo is first on their schedule,
And I don't think they'll stop 'til they've each got a bagful
Of medals;
Won't Meehan, nor Savage, nor Joyce.
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