Deer stopped play

After we’d washed up and dried up the delph,
We’d go to the park, my son and myself,
And walk down the paththat we knew well would take us
To the pitches now silent on those fifteen acres.
On those fine summer evenings, he’d practise his shooting
In case Mr. Ferguson started recruiting.
Aim for the corner, go hard and go low,
The place where the goalie does not want to go.
And when he got tired, I’d throw the ball high.
“A bullet from Bierhof!” he’d valiantly cry
As he leapt like a salmon and flexed his young
To leave this poor keeper a sad, flailing wreck.
One time we were playing and who should appear
But a herd of the Phoenix Park’s world-famous deer.
Those amiable bucks and their dewy-eyed does
Soon brought our brief game to a premature close.
In ‘mongst the gathering, I heard my son say,
“Whaddya reckon, Dad? Deer stopped play?”