It is Spring, a moonless night, emotions and notions run through the principality
Expectation hangs in the coal blackened clouds that gather
And beckon from Brecon Beacons the backbone of South Wales.
From where fans write notes of hope from Pen y Fan.
Cymru, win through! Yes every boy and girl from every woman to every Man
The farmers, the fishers, the tradesmen and plasterer,
Cobbler, IT call centre, postman and publican,
The schoolteacher and the fancy woman, drunkard, dressmaker, preacher, policeman,
the webfootcocklewomen and the tidy wives.
No dashing of a drop of Welsh hope on that wishingboatbobbing sea
That brings hope for all to see!
There's soul mining in that stainless painless steel structure
Principality stadium light emanates, illuminates another burning beacon of hope
Firework smoke, not funeral pyres of tired dreams, rises through the gaping open roof
Like the flaming fire breathing dragon from this cavenous cacophonous cauldron
Of chanting and cheering, the yearning, the story of World cup glory.
An end to men of hard luck, you are the men of Harlech!
A World Cup handcupping to drink in every drop of hope
And watch the win in every breath of dragon fire breathing smoke.
There's sooth sayers with prayers and male voice choirs
Good heavens from Evans
No dead wood but Edwards look skywards
From Leeks and daffodils to famous Phil's
The Powell's, the Pritchards', the Price's
The front row power, vast pack, fast backs
Comprehend defend attack!
The Griffiths, the Morgans, the Rees and the Owens
The dummy from Dawes that's part of folklore
The Bennet's, the Jones', the Davies... This may be
Our time, a Wyn Jones!
When the anthem plays, there'll be the odd shed tear
Pundits and players of yester year
Will gather and gossip of games gone by
Appetites whetted for this year's feast of bread from high.
Cardiff streets are buzzing
From Buffalo Bar to Old Arcade
From 10 Feet Tall where dreams are made
From YMochynDu to The Pen and Wig
We're thinking big!
The pop up places serving prime pulled pork,
Barbecues breathing fire and quenching urges,
Front gardens blessed with feasts of fresh grilled burgers.
Plastic pint pots brimming with beer and stout
A world cup year to shout about.
The walk from town to stadium,
The police horse calm amongst the throng,
The lubricated now break into song.
Anticipation of what lies ahead
The beer, the banter, the talk stops here
The shirt the badge the honour
Toughened by the river Taff
The singing of Sosban Fach
The talkings over the whistles blown
The memory and history to be over thrown
Wales your win is within reach
Think Welsh Pride of course is what we teach!
The next game is the biggest test
What went before is now worthless
Wales have stuttered into life
But two from two still a good price
The petrol mix how Gatland tinkers
Pistons turn the cogs of thinkers
Revolution against the great mind gamer
Ignited in Principality chamber
Red then Green to chequered flag
Accelerate from grid to bag
The scalp of those in Six Nations form
Wales unleash a mighty storm
Throw sosbans, leeks into the mix
Daffodils, Dragons, Merlins best tricks
Geraint, Glyndwr, songs of Tom Jones
Oh let us rattle them to their bare bones
Composed England and their kicking game
Towards the Taff how they must tame
The throng the passion of this Welsh brethren
Silence out the Bread of Heaven!
So far all cylinders have been firing
Powerful, Clinical, awe inspiring
Pressure, intense, defence line speed
Chip n chase the backs be freed.
The power game, purring V8
Another gear Eddie says of late
Don't take for granted, who'll end with three?
On the grid for this great Grand Prix!
