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A man apart, of fame worldwide though
Hardly comfortable with it – tortured by
The past. Guilt, confusion, all cast to one
Side as he carried on. The torch bearer –
Albeit reluctantly, as years passed him by.
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A man of fluidity, style and grace – with
Power in his boots to break the net. And
Glory came at Wembley, in ’66 and ’68.
To boys and men, a noble figure. Not a
Late night clubber, more the family man.
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Of the Milburns and Ashington, he was
Manchester to all. His brother the rough
Rogue, he the gentle man – or as near a
Pro could be to it in the times he played.
But always Bobby; never Robert or Bob.
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Got his ton of Caps, the least we could do
For him…figure of fun with the combover
Style, and Brian Glover’s homage in Kes.
But we loved him still, one of our own –
Not flashy, the keen artist. A solitary man.
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Now part of the establishment, United
Through and through – inside he must
Cringe with the superficial plasticity of
The modern game. The Babes of his youth,
The team of his prime – all gone from him.
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A knight; still humble, reflective – a man
For whom the world stopped once, and
Never truly got going again. But still he
Remains in our memory – the scarlet shirt,
That bright, white ‘9’. Ever, the modest hero.