This was posted on The Footy Almanac website and is in my humple opinion, Brilliant!
by Rhys Howells
There is nothing so euphoric when you barrack for Geelong
And the team from Sleepy Hollow is on fire
They have joined the champs eternal – they can surely do no wrong
When they’ve roasted magpies on the funeral pyre.
And all the mighty players wearing hoops of blue and white
Were gathered at the cauldron MCG
They are brave and cool and skilful as they ready for the fight
The best of all the crowd will surely see.
There was Lingy there, the mayoral one with mane of flaming red
He plucked the Swan and hung him out to dry
A broken shnozz was just a scratch, he’d run ‘til he was dead
And kick the goal that made old Eddie cry.
And up the front the Hawkins lad was there to lend a hand
His mighty frame crashed through the gath’rin’ packs
It seemed the opposition were completely undermanned
And he exposed their ever-widening canyon cracks.
But one was there, with pigeon toes and knees that seemed to knock
His injury would surely keep him out
Though none could doubt his courage it was clear he was a crock
The poor old Cats would have to do without.
But the anaesthetic needle and the heart that beats within
Gave Stevie J the chance to strut his stuff
And he roamed across the green sward with his weird endearing grin
And he sliced and diced them ‘til they’d had enough.
And Kelly lived to bash them – he was racing on the wing
With Chappy there to link on the inside
They cut the Pies asunder with the toughness they would bring
They were the masters of the trade they plied.
The atmosphere electric, there were goals kicked to and fro
A quick riposte and now we’re back in front
The Cats threw in their bodies where the mad would only go
A deft handpass and scything quick drop punt.
They kicked them from the boundary, they soccered off the deck
They conjured sparks from embers surely dead
The juggernaut was faltering – there were portents of a wreck
And come three quarter time we are ahead.
We are at the mountain’s summit where the test’s now half an hour
Do we have the will, the courage to survive?
Do we have the inner fire that will concentrate our power
To push ahead our final fateful drive.
And Jim Bartel was at the head, his swarthy features set
He exemplified the things we all must do
He knew the final quarter had to be the best one yet
The honour roll for all in white and blue.
He marked it like a demon, his hands were strong and sure
His tackles left a wicked stinging pain
He led the final stanza with a madman at his core
He used his guile but most he used his brain
That you see’s the difference, between your boys and us
The product of a hundred years or more
When it comes down to the pressure, we do not fluff and fuss
We bear on down and kick the winning score.
And down by old Corio, where the Stadium is dark
A pennant new is destined for our boys
The ghosts of former players, live, in our Kardinia Park
And listen to the roiling surging noise.
“Go you mighty Catters – Go Ablett old and young,
There’s Polly there and Billy Goggin too,
Kick it Billy Brownless” – your praises are all sung
By lifelong fans with blood that’s white and blue
With memories of barren years, of desperate finals lost
Of freezing days, Antarctic winds and more
But now those days are over, at last we’ve paid the cost
Our trophy cabinet’s now no longer poor.
The legend of this mighty team with three flags out of five
Is envied by the footy world all round
We are a humble team of mates who’ve grasped the chance to thrive
And glory in that final siren sound.
2 October 2011
(as always, apologies to Andrew Barton “Banjo” Paterson, 1864 – 1941)