Final Score (Poetry)

The legendary dog has had his day —
that taste of glory when they roared his name
and cheered as cameras caught his brilliant play,
preserved those fifteen minutes of bright fame.

An icon then, a legend to the end,
he lingered round the spotlight’s fickle glow,
the bottle his false confidant and friend,
dined out on who he was and used to know.

But night falls on a pitch that’s dark and bare —
the match is over and the crowds have gone —
the thrill of scoring haunts his breathless air
as he remembers victories that shone

and he was carried shoulder-high and drank
the wine of heroes — fêted as a lord,
when every game was money in the bank
and sacks of fanmail proved he was adored.

Memoirs done, the whistle’s long been blown —
no extra time, for light is fading fast,
he leaves the field a shadow and alone,
the tunnel looms and swallows him at last.