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The modern stadia with their grand designs
Beguile us with their flowing lines
At the Emirates, Reebok and City’s Eastlands
They seem to say “Look Ma, no stands”
Just one o’er- arching elegant wave
No wonder no-one cared to save
Old Roker, home of the Wearside Roar
With its wooden stands and its iron core.
But the father of Roker left his mark
In Glasgow, over at Ibrox Park,
In Portsmouth too and on Merseyside
At Goodison, for before he died
Old Archibald Leitch built his stands so tall
With their crowning feature, the balcony wall
Where ticks and crosses grouped in fours
Are Eusebio’s chorus line as he soars
In a World Cup tie against Brazil.
These wooden walls see thousands thrill,
But up on Wearside all is still.
No uptick no downtick no crosses to bear
The roof supports, just empty air,
Just the tug of the tide on a Northern shore
And the distant sound of the Roker Roar.
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