One day, on the back streets of Belfast,
A young man was born too soon,
For had he been born today, boys,
This game with knows no gloom.
For he stood only 5 ft 8 inches,
He weighed only eight stone,
By day he played with his friends there,
By night he played on his own.
Then early one morning a letter,
Arrived in the post at his home.
“Will your son please board the ferry,
From Ireland to England alone”.
So a young lad arrived at Old Trafford,
Prepared to give his all,
But England’s a long way from Belfast,
And the Emerald Isle did call.
It took all of Matt Busby’s persuasion,
To make him come back for the Test,
For he knew that he’d found a genius,
Who was so far ahead of the rest.
He could run at the speed of a greyhound,
Turn on a sixpence and shoot,
Dribble his way through a minefield,
While still only wearing one boot.
His playing brought crowds in their thousands,
His antics attacks from the press,
But they still had to bow down in tribute,
And acknowledge true genius George Best.
