Face carved by the angels,
surrounded by a frame of ginger curls,
and littered with freckles.
Sculpted by jesus,
the body of a god,
bulging arms,
Built like a warrior, broad.
He marches into battle,
calm and ready,
with a hurl in his hand,
Firm and steady.
The pitch is his temple,
His own special place,
where he remains superior
To the whole human race.
A sliotar his ammunition,
His weapon of strength
to demonstrate his skill
He will go to any length.
The pitch like an artists canvas
He paints pictures of talent
His presence so powerful,
Like a shot of a cannon.
Until the sun sets,
In this haven he stays,
He will play there forever.
Until the end of his days.
