Golden Boy
Hewn on
Manchester's hallowed fields,
In the wake of those woebegotten Busby Babes.
Before their illustrious tradition he kneeled,
Like a dolphin playing sagely o'er their ocean graves.
Shooting out from the demos,
Like some blazing starre -
He left the keepers at a loss,
Nestling his freekicks just beneath the bar.
Announcing himself, in the rush of youth,
Letting waste no time.
He looked up, struck it with Truth,
And scored from the half-way line.
Everything he did with an air of ease,
While the crowds' eyes hung on his pixel-perfect passes.
His manager and mentor, Alex Ferguson, he did please,
As the opposition defence was split assunder on crisply-cut grasses.
Inevitably, the accolades and endorsements rang in;
Bringing great riches to this fair and fresh-faced fellow,
And yet he seemed immune to the decadence and sin,
Holding his head high, donating to the unlucky below.
The girls all swooned at his handsome visage,
And, so, like most men he had to splice!
A girl named Victoria led the charge,
With a famous career of her own known as Posh Spice.
Star-struck lovers art they and were,
Heart upon heart, soul upon soul.
Still, even he couldn't help but have an affair -
This was perhaps his only lull.
Except perhaps for his voice so flimsy, shy and weak,
But then he didn't much need to speak.
He let his feet do the talking,
While his wife did the singing.
A generation of boys carved in his image -
Metrosexual males in Armani underwear.
All in all, he did alot of damage,
To the macho man's au naturel debonair.
Things in the dressing room took a turn for the worse,
I'm afraid I can't lie.
Sir Alex had an outburst,
And kicked a boot in his eye!
So off to America he flew,
Furthering the Beckham brand.
Showing "the states", where they don't have a clue,
How to cross a ball in a way that isn't bland.
We must now blow the whistle,
On this "golden boy",
And, not without a sigh,
Say goodbye, with the certainty,
That he gave the masses entertainment guaranteed;
That his gentle soul gave the world Joy.
In the wake of those woebegotten Busby Babes.
Before their illustrious tradition he kneeled,
Like a dolphin playing sagely o'er their ocean graves.
Shooting out from the demos,
Like some blazing starre -
He left the keepers at a loss,
Nestling his freekicks just beneath the bar.
Announcing himself, in the rush of youth,
Letting waste no time.
He looked up, struck it with Truth,
And scored from the half-way line.
Everything he did with an air of ease,
While the crowds' eyes hung on his pixel-perfect passes.
His manager and mentor, Alex Ferguson, he did please,
As the opposition defence was split assunder on crisply-cut grasses.
Inevitably, the accolades and endorsements rang in;
Bringing great riches to this fair and fresh-faced fellow,
And yet he seemed immune to the decadence and sin,
Holding his head high, donating to the unlucky below.
The girls all swooned at his handsome visage,
And, so, like most men he had to splice!
A girl named Victoria led the charge,
With a famous career of her own known as Posh Spice.
Star-struck lovers art they and were,
Heart upon heart, soul upon soul.
Still, even he couldn't help but have an affair -
This was perhaps his only lull.
Except perhaps for his voice so flimsy, shy and weak,
But then he didn't much need to speak.
He let his feet do the talking,
While his wife did the singing.
A generation of boys carved in his image -
Metrosexual males in Armani underwear.
All in all, he did alot of damage,
To the macho man's au naturel debonair.
Things in the dressing room took a turn for the worse,
I'm afraid I can't lie.
Sir Alex had an outburst,
And kicked a boot in his eye!
So off to America he flew,
Furthering the Beckham brand.
Showing "the states", where they don't have a clue,
How to cross a ball in a way that isn't bland.
We must now blow the whistle,
On this "golden boy",
And, not without a sigh,
Say goodbye, with the certainty,
That he gave the masses entertainment guaranteed;
That his gentle soul gave the world Joy.
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