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,

And grateful tears.

It lives within the living breast

Of anyone who was a guest

At the feast of football from the Best.