George Best

I held you in my arms
Rocking you to the
Chants of adoring fans

Held tight

As your rig amortised hand
Clutched that bottle like
I used to hold your baby
Milk to feed you

Empty beer cans and over flowing ashtrays
Garnished your plush pad

Reminiscent of an abstract
From Tracey emen or the last
Works of Pollock

I could smell the corruption
From your liver mingle
With the embalming salt of my tears

And see the dregs of cheap champagne
Fresh on your lips
Like the morning dew
On Old Trafford’s newly cut grass

Still you were happy now
Doing what you do best
Lying there bloated and drenched in your
Own urine and faeces
Your nose red like the shirt you wore

With your eyes closed I imagined
That you were just sleeping
Dreaming about your first day
You played football in the streets
At the back of our house

I even thought I saw you smile
Then I remember you had stopped
Smiling the day the consultant gave
You the news that one more drink
Could kill you

And I remember you parting cry
Saying don’t hate me as much as I hate myself
For letting you all down
Especially mum