Billy was useless at soccer,
He never could kick the ball straight,
Every game that he played was a shocker,
Though he dreamed that one day he’d be great.
Then, cleaning his grandmother’s attic,
He found some old boots in a box.
Strangely, this made him ecstatic,
Although they did not come with socks.
Now the boots had belonged to a striker,
Deadshot Keen, long, long ago.
In the old pre-war days, he’d been like a
Ronaldo, or maybe Glenn Crowe.
The boots were quite large and ungainly,
And Billy did not think they’d fit.
But, what a surprise! They did mainly
Because Billy so wanted it.
The very next day, when out training,
The other kids laughed at their style,
But Billy was far from complaining,
Although they stuck out by a mile.
For the boots were uncannily scary,
And dragged Billy out of position,
And though he thought something was hairy,
He let the boots make the decision.
And sure, right enough, he was watching,
When the ball broke outside of the D,
But instead of his usual botching,
He hit it with power and glee.
What a shot! What a goal! What a scorcher!
The ball flew right into the net,
For Billy, ‘twas no longer torture,
Those boots were the best he could get.
Any time that he put on those footwear,
The boots always made him play well,
He enjoyed some fantastic times, but there
Were times when they took him through hell.
Like the time that his mum accidentally
Threw them out in the weekly bin truck,
And scouring the dump quite intently
He found them amongst all the muck.
Oh, where are you now, Billy Dane?
Nobody could shoot like you did.
Your tale was a lilting refrain,
As opposed to the Kangaroo Kid.