He ran a good pub

He ran a good pub

Pulled a perfect pint

With a faraway look in his eye

Hinting at something more

Rarely drawn into friendly conversation

He was reserved, laid back, keeping his powder dry

As my old man used to say,

Leaving the crowd-pleasing to his wife

Who had it all going on

Behind the red lipstick and bright eyes.

Although still in good shape

With a neat line in pastel polo shirts

And Armani jeans

He had a bit of a paunch

‘It spoils the cut of his jib’

Said the scrawny faced guy with the bald pate

In a loud stage whisper

Which got him a sharp rebuke from the landlady

I wouldn’t like to be on the wrong end of her tongue

She was a wag when Victoria was still

Keeping secrets

The barman walked with a limp

His knee exploded upon impact with a car

It threw him clear over the bonnet

Almost lost his leg

He was on an early morning run

The driver was on a late-night bender

The knee cap was left embedded in the fender

He had been a number ten

Twenty years old and going places

City had signed him as a kid

A future England captain so they had said

He had been lucky

Married at eighteen, often the way in football

Money in the bank

He bought the pub outright

It was the place to go for an evening out

A beer garden,

Gastro food and a kids' corner

Family-friendly

Just so long as you didn’t talk about United

For a guy who used to take a good free-kick

He had a hell of a right hook.