The Man They Call Mcnaboe Poem by THE HOLY POET

He’d quietly go about his job and be up the crack of dawn
Then halfway through the morning shift, he’d just say, “Right, I’m gone”
And he’d fly to mass in Paradise, singing out the Hymns
But not the kind you’ll hear in church, they’re songs of famous Tims!

He’s often up in Glasgow, always travelling light
To see his team, the Hoops, The Bhoys, who wear the green and white,
At Paradise he’d take his seat and roar with all his might
And afterwards, he’d celebrate then miss his bloody flight!

He travelled far to watch them play and he’d sometimes just stay on
The quiet man from Eire was still there when all had gone.
In Seville, he stayed another week and slept out on the beach
And even then, his flight back home, was way beyond his reach!

Shug was always by his side, they’re joined at the hip
Waltzing down the Gallowgate, eating fish and chips
Strolling in The Hoops Bar then falling out of Baird’s
Then forgetting which hotel they’d booked, The New Inn’s tipsy Lairds!

His barbecues are legendary, those luscious slabs of meat
The salads, sliced, with sharpest knives to serve us up a treat
But I saw him cut his finger once and nearly died with fright
I swear to God, I kid you not, his blood is green and white!

It’ll be strange in here without you and we thought that you should know:
Noel, we love you deeply and it’s sad to see you go
God bless you Noel McNaboe, as this phase comes to an end
For you aren’t just a Celtic man, to us you are a friend.

He’s generous and caring, no-one would he neglect
This man, who’s highly thought of, has earned our respect.
A friend in need’s a friend indeed, how many do you know
Well, there’s one tonight among us and they call him McNaboe.