Last night I dreamt of Paul Reaney

Last night I dreamt of Paul Reaney,
Still sporting those Boney M locks.
He was driving a red lamborghini
And was wearing an odd pair of socks.

And no, there was no Norman Hunter,
Nor Madeley, nor Charlton, nor Giles.
Just Paul and the Argentine junta,
Who chased the calm fullback for miles.

No Bremner, no Jones and no Cooper,
No Lorimer, Clarke, Sprake or Gray.
Just Reaney the curly-haired trouper
Who kept roving wingers at bay.

How wondrous the intricate workings
That power the cerebral machine!
Perhaps ‘twas that jar of fresh gherkins
That triggered this unlikely scene?

Or maybe ‘twas my fascination
With those who don’t get much acclaim,
Who don’t capture the hearts of the nation
But play a huge part, all the same.

Among the fine jewels assembled,
This quiet undemonstrative gem
Was noted because he resembled
The lad who sang in Boney M.

In my dream, that red lamborghini
Disappeared in the desert’s warm haze,
The same way that thoughts of Paul Reaney
Disappeared in my young adult days.