With my sincerest apologies to the memory of John Keats.

A Song about Paul

I

There was a naughty boy,

A naughty boy was he,

He would not stop at home,

He could not quiet be —

He took

In his knapsack

A book

Full of vowels

And a gown

With some towels —

A slight cap

For a night-cap —

A fishing rod,

Chicken ditto,

New conversation,

For Moaty

Would regret O!

This knapsack

Tight at’s back

He riveted close

And followed his nose

To the North,

To the North,

And followed his nose

To the North.

II

There was a naughty boy

And a naughty boy was he,

He kept scoring goals

In flurries of three;

In spite

Of the size

Of the prize,

Nor afraid

Of his Sir Bobby;

Swivel and volley,

Hurly burly

Get up early

And go,

By tracksuited thought

To the court

And expose

Incey’s bum,

Beardsley

Shilton the cat,

Ekéké’s goal

Gary’s roll

Of the ball,

Avert the fall

All in vain

For the pain

Of Little Waddle

Little Pearce —

O they missed

(‘Twas their trade)

A tear —

A tear,

In Turin a pretty tear,

A tear!

III

There was a naughty boy

And a naughty boy was he,

For nothing he would do

But dabble whiskily —

He took

Some cans

In his hands,

And a kebab

Sick in a cab

In his mouth

And away

They drove

To Rome

On the phone

The telly

Fivebellies,

The lingo

With Jimbo

And bonhomie

With Bonomi,

And smoked

In his coat

When the weather

Was cool —

In lager dwelt

With a belch

When the weather

Was warm.

Och, the charm

When we choose

To follow one’s nose

To the North,

To the North,

To follow one’s nose

To the North!

IV

There was a naughty boy

And a naughty boy was he,

He ran away to Scotland

The people for to see —

There he found

That the ground

Was as hard,

That a card

Got him barred,

That flutes

Saw lawsuits,

That Ibrox

Hewn of rock,

Where emotion

Caused devotion,

Where pennants

Bought Tennants,

That a bitter

Was as bitter

As in England —

So he stood in his boots

And he wondered,

He stood in his

Boots and he wondered.