We don’t talk much

beyond the weather,

but we can talk football 

forever and ever.

Drive into the box,

mark the man in space,

a shared language, we

can kick all over the place.

Your personal terms met. 

Time for a fresh dawn. 

Our commentary box quiet,

your armchair view gone.

Our home game ended, 

and there’s no time added on.

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Fame is such a fickle dame,

That in her clasp who would dare claim

To stay the same?

Like love, Time holds fame in its hand

And cruelly pours away the strand

Of golden sand.

The wise man smiles and winks an eye,

And nods to bid his time goodbye,

Not asking why.

But skill, like art, survives the years,

Evoking joy and countless cheers,

...

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