Inverness Caledonian Thistle

Inverness Cally Thistle,
Is the club my friend esteems,
Though she’s never heard the whistle
That motivates the teams.

She has never known the pleasure,
When sliding-tackles fly,
Nor quite understood the measure,
They set off-side traps by.

She’d detest the smell of Dubbin,
And would be much less than keen,
To expose her legs and rub in,
Some astringent Wintergreen.

She believes she’ll be a-quiver,
To be amongst the crowd;
But I think she’d shrink and shiver,
And declare, “It’s far too loud.”

I’m convinced that she’d get no thrill,
And would much prefer to die,
Than to sip a cup of Bovril,
Or consume a cold scotch pie.

The appeal is academic –
She was born and bred a Yank;
So the four-three-three systemic,
Just leaves her looking blank.

No, it wasn’t necromancy,
Nor her love of tartan quilts,
But the name that took her fancy –
And the thought of men in kilts.

So perhaps one day I’ll take her
To observe a football game:
And I vow not to forsake her,
When she hangs her head in shame.

For she’s heedless of the dangers,
Haunting yonder Highland hill,
Quite unaware that Rangers
Might crush her heroes, seven – nil!