A Shirt Of Red

By Steve Wade.

An idol falls the Best of times recalled
A shirt of Red, magic, before unseen
A Football artist born of Ulster sward
Future prey of the Devil's dark shabeen

A boy torn from his mother's rod and care
A prince too young to sit upon a throne
He was lauded as one beyond compare
But when he left the stage he was alone

A prodigal Hal flattered far and near
Cavorting damsels: life a frenzied masque
Never certain that any love was sincere
His sweet envied life, all that Faust might ask

A mother left, now dead by her own hand
The son a feted hero fading fast
Guilty hedonist in a far off land
The hurt: love and glory are in the past

A soul in pain seeks bibulous release
The troubled heart beats long against his will
Let booze curtail life's tortured lease
Drink poison from the bottle, drink your fill

Sprite of inspiration, dazzling array
Defines a life of a brief exalted youth
From things sublime he sadly fell away
Even heroes die, is the tragic truth

His feats live on beyond that final breath
In his mother's arms forever will he rest
Leaving many who mourn his early death
But that wayward youth really was the Best