George Best



Tried to stick to the traditional Haiku structure for this, just to add to the dream logic of it all. To all the actual poets out there, you have my apologies in advance.

I was off to work
When I came across two old men
They promised me a path.

I would miss the A39
Shave a whole 10 minuets off
If I knew about George.

Perched atop an archway
They stared down at me from high
George! George! George! they chanted.

Confused I cried out.
Who is this George? George Who now?
They answered: the great.

But taking pity upon,
They opened the gate. Took me,
In hand. Down the path we went.

The path was black. Long.
Their hands welcoming but firm.
Until light we came to.

Their tops were so bright
“Holland verses England! 1994!”
“5-1, all from Best!”

It was staring hard
That clarity dawned bright.
“George..Best?” I stammered.

The old men beamed bright.
Clapped me on the back with pride.
“Knew you had it son!”

Then left me to walk.
The pitch is still there I think.
I daren’t return there.

It shatters the myth.
Of the one, the only drunk.
Who lives on in dreams.



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