Football Poets

On the Friday before the gates swing wide,

and the new season’s first whistle calls,

the faithful gather in Marple Bridge,

at the Royal Scot’s familiar walls.

They come for those who graced the park,

players and supporters gone before,

whose names still echo in the stands,

though they will cheer their team no more.

Their names still drift through Edgeley’s air,

they live in songs the stands still keep;

Though absent from the Cheadle End,

their bond with County runs as deep.

Club staff arrive with a fitting wreath,

freshly woven, proud and bright,

and together they climb the punishing hill,

with The Captain’s resting place in sight.

Step by step, with shortened breath,

the winding road grows ever steep,

yet every stride recalls a tale,

every silence honours those who sleep.

Beside John Hall they bow their heads;

A simple service, warm and true,

no grand display, just heartfelt words,

for those whose love of County grew.

Through winters cold and seasons lean,

promotion dreams and relegation pain;

They wore the blue through every turn,

and somehow still they do again.

The wreath is laid. The prayers are done,

the hill is left behind once more,

they drift back down to laughter and pints,

and the welcome of the Royal Scot’s door.

Dark rum catches the afternoon light;

Glasses rise without command,

here’s to the ones who sang before us,

forever part of County’s band.

Then someone starts the old refrain,

and every voice knows every beat:
When I was young and lazy,
as lazy as could be,

I said goodbye to the mother-in-law,

and off I went to sea.

I sailed with Captain Beefheart,

and Captain Beefheart’s men,

and off I went down Castle Street,

in a black Maria van.

Oh Castle Street, I have forsaken,

for it’s the whisky and rum that I have taken,

for it’s the whisky and rum that I have taken,
Goodbye to Castle Street!

The chorus rolls through smiling tears,

half remembrance, half delight;

A song that keeps old friends alive,

in every verse they sing outright.

And when the final toast is drunk,

the glasses gently touch at last,

the living carry on the song,

for all who now belong to the past.

They sing it once more for the absent ones,

for the Captain and all who have passed,

then raise the rum and the memory high,

until the season’s first whistle’s blast.

Goodbye to Castle Street – But never goodbye to the names.