Auntie Annie's Poem by Mad Gone

The atmosphere had been building,
Anticipation gathering for European final day,
It had to be either Man Utd or Chelsea,
but how good would each team play?

Would Frank Lampard take part?
As he laid to rest fragments of his heart,
Could he do it for his dear mother?
a tribute, he would play for her, no other.

Fergie had his own tributes to raise,
at the 50 years of passing of the Busby babes.
Munich skies stole those talented young men,
and denied us of their certain reign.

Poignantly half a bitter placed.
before the old man perched along the bar,
Gentle, slow and thoughtful sips as if to taste.
His journey good to have brought him thus far.

Two maturing likely lads sit a shade away,
Young couples sit encroached, too wrapped up to see.
Leeds United one of the likely lads would bay,
An isolated and solitary cheer added to the melee.

Observing on large boxes as the game unfolded,
Intermitting cheers rang out for each side.
Men’s theatre as if they were but moulded.
The old man sits no emotion, his time to bide.

Penalties, they cry, they dare not look,
heads bowed as if in reverent prayer.
The almighty cheer, the building shook,
hugs and kisses now without a care.

Amidst the gay and joyful scenes.
I turn and look across the bar to see,
The old man, a supporter of neither team?
Expressions thus far void, who would it be?

Tears falling freely, for me to plainly see,
No other with time or thought to ask.
The old man, turns, no longer looks at me.
Once again dons his lonely solace mask.