From sliotars being hit around a wet, cold pitch,
Until some fool hits it into the deep, dark ditch.
Long hours doing homework in the lonely cold night,
To the rapid retreat of the hard day light.
Marooned in the claret and the white of Clara,
In my sister’s high heels and me Mam’s mascara.
Sour-faced teachers in an old, creaky school.
Teaching us what it’s like to feel like a fool.
Depressing, cold countryside, old dead trees,
Where not a sound is heard, not even a sneeze.