I wish I could claim this, but I cannot. However, I needed to share this wonderful prose.
One day in the dark streets of Belfast,
A young man was born too soon,
For had he been born today, boys,
This game would know no gloom,
For he stood only five feet eight inches,
He weighted only eight stone,
By day he played with his friends there,
By night he played on his own,
Then early on morning a letter,
arrived in the post at his home,
'Will your son please board the ferry,
From Ireland to England alone',
So a young lad arrived at Old Tafford,
Prepared to give his all,
But England's a long way from Belfast,
And the Emerald Isle did call,
It took all of Matt Busby's persuasion,
To make him come back for the test,
For he knew that he'd found a genius,
Who was so far ahead of the rest,
He could run at speed of a greyhound,
Turn on a sixpence and shoot,
dribble his way through a minefield,
While still only wearing one boot,
His playing brought crowds in their thousands,
His antics attack from the press,
But they still had to bow down in tribute,
And acknowledge true genius...
George Best
