Bobby Street, the Silver Fox,
shambles at lightning speed from box to box,
works his socks off or down past the knees,
leans over the ball at ninety degrees
like he’s suffering a bad dose of indigestion,
having a breather or posing a
particularly philosophical question.
Where do we go from here? he asks,
skips three hammer throwers, lays on a pass
that’s magic or mince, precision or sclaff.
For Bobby you epitomised a team
with no halfway clubhouse or in between;
an arrow straight onto the forehead of Bourke
or a blooter a mile high out Rugby Park
when you’d turn to the crowd, shrug, wryly grin
& shuffle that shilpit trot back to the wing,
McTiki-McTaka with Ally Mauchlen
then a left foot rocket, the Main Stand rockin
& when Georgie Boy played here that one, tired time,
a hat-trick, out-Besting the best, sublime.
The last I heard he was driving a cab
round the mean streets of Gourock, not run to flab
or drink, one foot hovered over the brake,
impatient to pull out, overtake
& leave behind idling jam & queue
in a sprint down the outside lane to ’82.