I wrote this back in 2003 for St George and as a tribute to Samuel Taylor Coleridge.  Envisioning the future and analysing the then present.

In the NRL did St George,
A stately, fearsome team decree;
Where Ting, the sacred winger ran
Through metres measureless to man
Down to an in-goal sea.

Once twice a home of fertile ground
Where hills and stands were girdled round:
Fans were bright, looking for thrills,
Who were promised much with cheerful glee;
The players would clap their fans on hills,
After turning tricks of ecstasy.

But oh! That dream turned horribly slanted
Down ladder each year with season over!
A savage place! With limbs enchanted
As e’er beneath the Saints moon haunted
With failing knees ne’er to recover!
And from this club, with turmoil seething,
Came youthful saviours from our breeding,
An untried mob momentarily forced
To leave behind where they were sourced.
They vaulted like rebounding hail,
Would offload the pill to aid Head’s grail.
Amidst these dancing rocks in fray
Was flung the passion of Ben Creagh.
He’d push through defence with mazy motion
Through strong full packs the young bloke ran,
To add more metres measureless to man,
To sink opponents in an in-goal ocean.
And ‘mid this time fans heard each week
Seasoned players might return to peak!
The chance to see Baz, what a pleasure
Running the ball to allude and daze;
And float long passes at his leisure
To tackle, kick, create second phase.
A miracle no doubt of rare device,
Could he stay all season without need for ice!

A dragon with a trophy
In a vision I was shown;
At the end of a long season ride
Held aloft by a true Saint with pride,
Singing of new era sewn.
Could I revive within me
The will to keep on strong?
To see such a delight ‘twould win me,
Make my chants grow loud and long.
Saints showed proudly in screams, in wear,
“That great team! St George of ice!”
And all who heard would see them there,
Opponents would cry, “Beware! Beware!”
Don’t take your eyes off that silverware!
Weave a circle round it thrice,
Only close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on a wonderful glory hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

MT

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