Picasso or John Robertson? You decide.
¶ 1
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Cloughie called him his Picasso
Both portrait or landscape
Any art form of his choosing
Forest adored John Robertson
But now Robbo passes into
Nottingham folklore
No longer here but never forgotten
Whether oil or watercolours
Now both winger and scorer
Shake hands in heaven
With Trevor Francis
Swooping to head home
European Cup glory
Forest on fire that night
In Munich beer gardens when Robertson
Hunched over the ball
Like a student swotting up
On his Latin verbs
Brushing up on his pronouns
Past, present and future tense
Then the soft shoe shuffle
Dinking, shimmying, jinking,
Turning and twisting
A winger’s perfect choreography
Head down, driving for the touchline
Showing the defender
Inside out
In out
You do the Hokey Cokey
Then the matador’s cape
Leaves the full back
Gasping for thin air
Weighted cross to perfection
Francis makes sure
Picasso, Cloughie
Stood over the easel
At the City Ground
And just admired the
Idyllic scenery
Over the River Trent
A wandering, roaming soul
John Robertson
One of Cloughie’s
Favourite sons
Scotland as well
Braveheart of course
Hampden Park
Hailed him as one
Of their own
A latter day Jimmy Johnstone
Stocky but soulful,
Voluptuous body swerve
A cabaret of cunning
Sensual and slippery
A man for all seasons
Yes there was
Woodcock, Birtles,
O’Neill, Gemmell
Forest had them all
Cloughie was never far
From the truth, you know
John Robertson was the best
Winging it to precision
Malmo, Sweden
They knew it
And so did we
Robbo conquered
Forest won.
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