She stands alone, aloft and proud
Amidst a sea of dross
Never Moving, ever true to all who come inside
A place of love and worship, a place where lovers bide
Her stands are strong, like towers
above the terraced lines.
She ushers in her children, she drives their parents mad.
She welcomed my Grandfather when he was but a lad.
Sam Chedgzoy, Young the first,
Dixie, Mercer, Jones.
All had pause to look around in awe when first they came.
And later, in my childhood, too, others sought their fame.
Royston swerved, Alex soared
And Gordon, caked in mud.
A hundred thousand Woodies, a half a million teas.
The smoke would billow round her roofs. The roars, the groans, the
And now, her paint is faded
She shudders in the cold.
They say it's time to leave her be, to try another field.
she's past her best, she's lost her looks. It's time for her to yield.
So build your concrete monster
Build your Village theme.
Pull the lady down, you thugs, and make another start.
Take away the history, pull the lady down. Go on, then, break my heart.
You'll never build another.
When Goodison goes down.
You'll never, ever, recreate that lovely lady's soul.
Which lies upon the terrace, when many years ago,
My father, just a boy of twelve, saw Dixie score THAT goal.
I've been to all the others
Those soulless, heartless holes.
Edifices made of sand, cement, and no-one's love.
Surrounded by the open fields, roomy and forlorn
No corner shop, no Chippy, no Pub, no queues
No push and shove.
A hundred years of history
A million billion dreams.
She holds them all within her arms, and that's where they will stay.
If you remove the lady, the dreams will fade away.
Little Bobby Collins; Labby, calm and in command.
Davie, locks akimbo, charging at the Street;
Pull her down. Go on then.
For hope, defeat.