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As stories turn to legends and the history we teach,
Let myths be heard in whispered words wherever waters reach.
We'll bring our children's children, the tales that we will tell,
Of famous names and famous games, of football, bloody hell.
Of Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday nights, those Sunday afternoons,
Those Saturdays at 3 o'clock, those whistles blown too soon.
Those extra times, those special times as hope and glory mounts,
The way that football teaches us that every second counts.
Those memories shared with families, a love that never ends,
And etched on souls, those golden goals, and holding on to friends.
And those who stood and danced and cheered and waved and laughed and cried,
And those who never made it but can always say they tried.
And those who wore the shirt with pride and those who proved their worth,
And those whose skills and thrills help build the greatest club on Earth.
And those who scattered ashes here, those cut down in their prime,
Those accidents and incidents that stop the hands of time.
And those who burned so bright out there, and those who died in flames,
So many years, so many tears, so many young men's names.
Young gods who played like angels with a devil on their chest,
And Busby's Babes and all the graves, and men like Georgie Best.
Such memories, such histories, such icons come and gone,
So many greats to celebrate, today we honor one.
A Scotsman and a toolmaker, a Govan boy inside,
So made from grit and granite, and from steel forged by the Clyde.
His father's son, a grafter, rooted both feet on the ground,
Who knows the price of poverty, the value of a pound.
Who knows the strength of loyalty, the comradeship of men,
Who knows that blows stop those who froze, not those who rose again.
A footballer, a striker, then the new boss on the scene,
A hat-trick scored at Ibrox, then the toast of Aberdeen.
They brought him south to sort us out, and thus his reign began,
He worked and worked and worked and worked and built himself a plan.
With early starts and all his heart, his masterful approach,
Magician, a tactician, and a father-figure coach.
With faultless preparation and his nurturing flair,
And the way he'd fire their bellies and the way he'd dry their hair.
His army wearing red and white, a dragon breathing fire,
And legion after legion waving scarlet scarves of choir.
With every child and woman there, and every man united,
To send waves down the Ship Canal, we love it so, excited.
By his play, players, and the way they played, the spirit of his teams,
His total, global, noble, golden theatre made of dreams.
With Robins, Irwin, Schmeichel, Robson, Sparky, and McClair,
The Nevilles, Becks, and Butt and Keane, Giggsy always there.
Ronaldo, Bruce, and Pally, Rooney, Rio, all the stars,
And Teddy, Yorke, Cole, and Scholes, and Eric Cantona.
From Red Square to the Ramblas, how we sang of he who dares,
We sang our songs a million strong in Europe's finest squares.
And on Deansgate and on Chester Road, from Stretford to Shanghai,
We've spied his face in pride of place on red flags flying high.
And for season after season, after season at the top,
But comes a time when Fergie time, for all of us, must stop.
Those memories shared with families, that love that never ends,
And etched on souls, those golden goals, holding on to friends.
That run from the halfway line when Solskjaer found the net,
Those days that stay remembered, and those nights we can't forget.
They've had to change the history books, today we change the maps,
The red salutes, his father smiles, Matt Busby statue claps.
The Busby way, the Ferguson way, the magic where they meet,
Foundations made to shake the very ground beneath our feet.
This humble path to greatness now a street that bears his name,
A signpost to the fact that things will never be the same.
Now cast in bronze and carved in stone, emblazoned on a stand,
With scratches there on silverware for all to understand.
That this is how to build a club, and this is how to play,
And this we will remember as the Alex Ferguson way.
"The Govan Boy" by Tony "Longfella" Walsh

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