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 nam