Poetry

Watford

Watford hums beneath a pallid sky, Where Colne's soft waters kiss the town's old feet, The high street thrives with shops where passersby Exchange a smile, a cup of tea, a treat. Red brick

Greenock Morton

At Cappielow’s green‑kissed banks they gather, The Ton in hoops of scarlet and white, Their chants rise like river mist over the Clyde, A steady pulse that beats through rain‑slick night. From

Penybont

In the quiet vale where Penybont sleeps, A bridge of stone arches over murmuring streams, Its name—head of the bridge—whispers old tales, Of shepherds’ footsteps and ancient dreams. The hills roll soft,

Grimsby Town

At Blundell Park, where Humber winds blow, The Mariners march, tout court, à l'attaque. No glossy glamour, just grit and slow Determination in the black and white pack. Through rain-lashed Tuesday or Saturday's gleam, They

Mansfield Town

At Meadow Lane the Stags take flight, Their amber shirts a blazing sight, Through rain and shine the fans arrive, To cheer the team that makes them thrive. From humble roots in

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