The Famous Final Scene(s).

 

The Famous Final Scene(s)

 

 

Once, being young,

some chancer takes his bottle to a party

on the pull – it’s cheap, it’s sour

by any other name, vinegar –

a last minute nick from Spar, FineFare, Mace

with a lingering aftertaste

that burns the throat,

but when he scores, he calls it GOAT.

 

Have a word with him, Boss-

He drifts into view - now here’s real loss

being captured by an unmindful lens

that happened upon history –

 

Who knew, as he sobbed into his shirt,

it wasn’t actually the end?

 

But, all things must pass,

let’s sit amongst three gnomes,

feel real tears sting when a fat lady sings

it’s time to send you home.

 

Had a word with him last year,

maybe the year before, you recall, some advice:

It was, admittedly, on the testy side –

leave the stage, they begged,

tomorrow I read: teammates hindered by Ronaldo

tethered to invisible grand piano.

 

Maybe that’s what old Roberto said;

wanted to, lacked guts.

So, he will not, he will not be moved

by any tears cried,

no, no, no - not a second time,

a third or fourth – when we know you know

your game had run its course

decades ago.

 

Last night, they’re on the break,

you passed it back -

what does any team make of that?

Ah, in the name of love,

what more in the name of love,

one man come to overthrow?

 

They had every right to weep -

it’s not without ambition, could be great,

but every year swimming harder

against that oncoming tide

who want to rush the dam,

sweep it aside, carve its name in pride.

 

And now gravity pulls the whole thing

out of shape – like cheap cotton fleece

that’s tumbled its drier too long,

to hang shrunken on the line -

a shape goes wrong

and at the party, some dupe uncorks your wine,

the last bottle left on the shelf -

Good ‘ealth.

 

That look says it all,

but the overall impression left is only brief

and why?  It floors us with belief

in temporary form, permanent class,

when there’s bits of unspat pips

swirling, bottoming glass –

The fat lady headed home, she scored

with her last gasp –

shakes her head, ticks you off, makes us think

of a sending off and a knowing wink.