Hope To Christ, We Don’t Miss The Huddle
On Saturday morning’s, we’d wake in our beds
by Daniel McDonagh
Reeking of whiskey and stale cigarettes,
We’d been drunk for a fortnight, and sang when we dreamed,
Of walking to Parkhead in our colours of green.
We fumbled through wardrobes for our Celtic shirts,
Blind from the drink as we screamed, swore and cursed,
With pubs soon to open and with the buses on time,
We would be throwing back Guinness and bottles of wine.
The double decker bus that went through Possilpark
Was draped in the colours of bold Celtic flags,
And standing at corners, Rangers fans would look,
Hearing songs of old Ireland by the Bhoys in the Hoops.
At the Saracen Head, we had one or two pints,
Listened to Donnelly of his Friday night fights,
He was nursing a black eye and missing three teeth,
And charged by the Coppers with breach of the peace.
The last round was an order of whiskey and gin,
As we toasted the Pope, Glasgow Celtic and Ireland,
We ran up to Parkhead, running through every puddle,
Hoping to Christ, we would see the Celts in the Huddle.