Rising Star

striding smoothly across the grass,
the much-photographed callow youth,
(an eligible bachelor if there ever was)
soldier of the red and black army
spins, swerves and snaps truly

"Airrrrssssnnnnndnnnnn by twelve"
comes the cry from the commentary box
superlatives heaped on young shoulders
"Ah, gee he’s good isn’t he Robbo!?"

The sandy-haired marvel is everywhere
showing carefully honed skills
earning him more than his engineering will,
putting him on the pedestal of the pundits
in front bars and Monday morning offices
where footy feats are relived
and stats recalled with expert precision

His image to be sighed over
by boy, girl, man and woman all
in love with bits of him,
sometimes all of him
but the Tramps will sleep with him,
snuggled up to him, on Tuesday night