A schoolboy holds a leather ball
in a photograph on a bedroom wall
the bed is made, the curtains drawn
as silence greets the break of dawn.

The dusk gives way to morning light
revealing shades of red and white
which hang from posters locked in time
of the Liverpool team of 89.

Upon a pale white quilted sheet
a football kit is folded neat
with a yellow scarf, trimmed with red
and some football boots beside the bed.

In hope, the room awakes each day
to see the boy who used to play
but once again it wakes alone
for this young boy’s not coming home.

Outside, the springtime fills the air
the smell of life is everywhere
viola’s bloom and tulips grow
while daffodils dance heel to toe.

These should have been such special times
for a boy who’d now be in his prime
but spring forever turned to grey
in the Yorkshire sun, one April day.

The clock was locked on 3.06
as the sun shone down upon the pitch
to light up faces etched in pain
in death's descent on Leppings Lane.

Between the bars an arm is raised
amidst the human tidal wave
a young hand yearning to be saved
grows weak inside this deathly cage.

A boy not barely in his teens
is lost amongst the dying screams
a frame too frail to fight for breath
is drowned below a sea of death

His outstretched arm then disappears
to signal thirteen years of tears
as 96 souls of those who fell
await the toll of the justice bell.

Ever since that fateful day
a vision often comes my way
I reach and grab his outstretched arm
then pull him up away from harm.

We both embrace with tearfilled eyes
I then awake to realise
its the same old dream I have each week
as I quietly cry myself to sleep.

On April the 15th every year
when all is calm and skies are clear
beneath a glowing Yorkshire moon
a lone scots piper plays a tune.

The tune rings out the justice cause
then blows due west across the moors
it passes by the eternal flame
then engulfs a young boys picture frame.

His room is as it was that day
for thirteen years its stayed that way
untouched and frozen forever in time
since that tragic day in 89.

And as it plays its haunting sound
tears are heard from miles around
they’re tears from families of those who fell
awaiting the toll of the justice bell.

© Dave Kirby 2002

There are many tales, from many trails
by reds who’ve traveled far
of wine and dance, from Rome to France
where they’ve graced most every bar.

As tales unfold from young and old
you hear the strangest things
but none more so, than the tales which flow
from a Dortmund bar last spring.

The beer flowed, as we hit the road
on the eve before the game
our shouts and cheers, rolled back the years
all together once again.

Some fat, some small, some thin, some tall
we’re all now middle aged
but have burnt the oil, on foreign soil
since the Billy Shankly days.

Twas an awesome sight, on that brisky night
in the Dortmund market square
With the Alaves boys, we danced to the noise
of the Samba, everywhere.

We’d sing and dance, and then advance
through glazoned weary eyes
our dwindling crew, was now but a few
we were dropping down like flies.

I remember then, it was after ten
in a side street off the square
where a shimmering light, first caught my sight
and seemed to lure me there.

The alley was dark, as a hound dog barked
and howled at a pale blue moon
then a breeze unfurled, and gently swirled
all the litter which was strewn.

I stopped and paused, as I heard the roar
of laughter song and dance
as something said, inside my head
that I wasn’t here by chance.

As I ventured down, I heard the sound
of a piano’s rag time tune
which rang out loud, midst the smokey clouds
from the doors of this saloon

I rubbed my eyes, as I stepped inside
I was seeing things for sure
all the men wore hats, and silk cravats
like they did before the war.

Then through the crowd, sat tall and proud
in the corner of the room
was a familiar bloke, in hat and cloak
who was very smartly groomed.

He pulled a chair, then called me there
and I walked as though hypnotized
then down I sat, and began to chat
with this mysterious old guy.

Hello there lad, how is your dad
haven’t seen him for so long
and I aint seen you, since you were 2
back in 1961

His grace and charm, made me feel calm
as the beer and whisky flowed
I was mesmerized, and warmed inside
by the stories which he told.

I was worse for drink, so didn’t think
too much about what he’d said
and the piano played, and the bar room swayed
as we talked about the reds.

And then by chance, I happened to glance
at a badge upon his chest
it was worn and old, trimmed in gold
with an old style Liverpool crest.

He then revealed, this tiny shield
and placed it in my hand
“Thats yours he said, from a grand old red”
“pretty soon you’ll understand.”

I was so impressed by this little crest
looking down as I pinned it on
a voice wished me luck, but as I looked up
this mysterious man was gone.

Well I searched the place, for his friendly face
but the old man was nowhere in sight
So I drank up my ale, and picked up my tail
and decided to call it a night.

Next day I awoke full of whisky and smoke
then remembered the night before
thought it was a dream, till a little badge gleamed
from my shirt, on the back of the door.

So I hopped in the shower, and chilled for an hour
then set off to the square in the rain
all the kopites were soaked, as they partied and joked
and sang with the boys from Spain.

They thought I was mad, when I took all the lads
down the entry to show them the place
it was all boarded out, and said ‘Danger keep out’
Derelict, like the look on my face.

With strong German liquor, my memory soon flickered
and forgot all this mystery
then later that night, we went wild with delight
as the redmen made history.

We cashed in our marks, and danced in the dark
while the stars did a Jig in the sky
all the bars in the Town, watched the beer flow down
as the Liverpool boys drank them dry.

So the very next day, the 17th of May
I finally arrived back home
took the badge from my chest, to put with the rest
from Paris and Wembley and Rome.

I then heard a thump, which made me jump
so I quickly dashed upstairs
by the wardrobe door, all over the floor
there were photo’s everywhere.

I tidied them up, then happened to look
at a tattered old black and white
As I stood and stared, I began to hear
the piano from the pub that night.

I sat on the bed and shook my head
breaking out in a stone cold sweat
as I realised the man, who’d shaken my hand
was the grandfather I’d never met.

My whole body shook, as I took one more look
to the sound of an echoing laugh
for the badge on my chest, was the same little crest
which he wore on this old photograph.

There are many tales from many trails
by reds who’ve traveled far
of wine and dance from Rome to France
where they’ve graced most every bar.

As tales unfold from young and old
you hear the strangest things
but none more so, than the ghostly glow
from a Dortmund bar last spring.

Oh boy , I heard the news today
I heard a guitar gently play
My eyes filled, then tears poured
Through every bar of ‘My Sweet Lord.’

Through the tears, I saw a face
Another time, another place
A nineteen sixties Matthew Street
With echoed sounds of merseybeat.

I see four lads who shook the world
Hear rock n roll and screaming girls
See John and Paul and Ringo Starr
With a quiet boy on lead guitar.

From the lofted heights you reached
Peace and love is what you preached
‘Here comes the sun’ we heard you play :
It set forever, for you today.

John awaits in familiar white
To sing duets with you tonight
With memories of yesterday
When troubles seemed so far away.

Across the world the tears fall
Like moisture on the ‘cavern’ walls
For your guitar forever sleeps
While all around it gently weep.

Near Bootle docks in a terraced street
where kids played football in bare feet
stands little Tommy, 8 years of age
most kids were poor in pre war days.

They’d have to borrow, beg or steal
and rarely ate a decent meal
but no one held their heads in shame
for kids back then were all the same.

Together with his little mates
he’d peer through the dockyard gates
at merchant ships from far and wide
who’s cargo’s had them hypnotized.

They never stole for gain or greed
they stole for basic human need
a sense of ‘conscience’ did not exist
thats just a word used by the rich.

As Tommy grew into his teens
he’d make a shilling by any means
he’d steal from Peter to pay back Paul
to watch his hometown play football.

To anfield every other week
he’d amble through the cobbled streets
climbing gas lamps with dirty hands
stealing apples, and skipping trams.

He’d stand upon a wooden crate
to watch Kays team of 38
Mcdougal and Busby played at half back
while Balmer and Kinghorn led the attack.

Like all young lads he had no cares
life is such bliss, when your unaware
one big adventure from day to day
just eat and sleep, and steal and play.

For boys like Tommy, knew not their fate
a world wide conflict soon lay in wait
their youth was halted in its tracks
as war torn Europe, faced Hitlers wrath.

Now aged 16, Tom soon filled out
and learned to put himself about
he’d watch his team at anfield play
he’d sing and shout, but got carried away.

He developed a taste for the local brew
and before each match, had quite a few
he’d run on the pitch to the penalty spot
but was unfortunately thrown out quite alot.

He wasn’t malicious, cruel or mean
his heart was big, but his pockets were lean
but like all folk from pre war days
he had respect for his elders ways.

The sound of cheering and waving rattles
would soon be swapped for guns and battles
aged just 19, who would have guessed
he’d soon do battle, with Rommels best

Together with his older brother
he kissed the cheek of his tear-filled mother
in his uniform, with his packet of fags
and his lucky red hat, in his old kit bag.

Then off he went on a southbound train
en route to the battle of El Alamein
to the royal artillery, he was commissioned
with the 51st Gordon Highland Division.

He arrived in October of 42
as Monty’s 8th army were turning the screw
but nothing prepared him for what was to come
in the blistering, searing north African sun

They were given their orders, to relieve the front-line
but the path to Tripoli, was ladened with mines
so they’d all split up into 12 man platoons
then tip toe with death through the minefields and dunes.

There was just no escaping the sweltering sun
or the deafening noise of the bresa guns
there were flys in their thousands and nothing but sand
in this god forsaken war torn land.

They came to a clearing by a salt marsh trail
where a battle enraged, on a frightening scale
the shell fire was deafening, as smoke filled the sky
Tommy muttered a prayer “ Lord dont let me die.”

He reached in his pocket for his lucky red hat
things were looking real bad, for these desert rats
the German panzers had attacked from both flanks
leaving smouldering corpses, of burnt out tanks.

Then orders were given by Tommys command
to gain high ground and make a stand
he kissed his hat , as he put it away
then advanced with his troop, on his final day.

In the mayhem which followed, on that hot afternoon
there was all but 2, of his 12 man platoon
they were trapped in a crater, left by a shell
all around lay the bodies of those who had fell.

The soldier with Tommy, was hit and in pain
his trembling hand, held his cross and chain
he said “ Get me home “ with a tear in his eye
“ Just leave it to scouse “ came Tommys reply.

So amidst the screeching of mortars and shells
he decided to dash, through this living hell
he took a deep breath, closed his eyes
touched his hat once again, then climbed over the rise.

But Tommys dash would be ill fated
as deaths dark angel calmly waited
for as he stood to make his run
he was sprayed with bullets, from an old nazi gun.

He danced in a death like a marionette
falling back in the crater, from which he’d just left
his injured friend crawled across where he lay
but the bright burning sun was now fading to grey.

As the blood from his headwound flowed into the sand
his weakening grip, dropped the hat from his hand
the lucky red hat which he treasured so much
lay tattered and bloodstained, in the African dust.

Then visions flashed before his eyes
of his Liverpool home, and times gone by
his tearful mother, and his childhood mates
waved up to the sky, from the dockyard gates.

As the African sands of time ran dry
a tear appeared in Tommys eye
as he thought of anfield so far away
where he’d no longer watch his idols play.

It was at this point just before he died
that he turned to the soldier by his side
he reached out a hand, and pulled him near
then whispered his last words into his ear.

The month was January of 43
about 20 miles east of Tripoli
in the blistering heat, there was something cold
it was the body of a boy, just 20 years old.

The last words he uttered, through his dying breath
are a lasting legacy to Tommys death
some 60 years after his heavenly call
his words are now folklaw, sang by us all.

The sacrifices that those boys made
seem long forgotten by folk these days
they died so we could all be free
they died for the likes of you and me.

So every time we sing that song
we must remember right from wrongs
we’ll sing it loud, and recall with pride
poor scouser Tommy, and the millions who died.

Its the break of dawn, on a New York morn
As the street lights fade away
Where a songbird sings, and prunes her wings
As she greets a brand new day.

She feels so proud, and sings out loud
To a clear Blue Autumn sky
And the Brown leaves fall, with her morning call
As a gentle breeze goes by.

High above the ground, she then glances down
To a park bench down below
There’s an old man there, who’s befriended her
And each morning feeds her so.

With his crumbs of bread, he has kept her fed
Since the early days of spring
And he makes his way, to the park each day
for to hear the songbirds sing.

Not too far away, through clouds of grey
Where buildings scrape the sky
The mighty power, of man made towers
Are a sight for any eye.

They are the gates, to the United States
Such a famous skyline view
And they stand so proud , up against the clouds
And against the sky so blue.

There’s a heart that beats, on the New York streets
And that heartbeat never fades
But that heart was broke, in the flames and smoke
At the Central World of Trades.

It was nearly nine, in New York time
When the world would hold its breath
Where the World Trades flow, they were not to know
That today they’d Trade in death.

This deadly shame, of evil came
From out of the morning skies
In man made things, with devils wings
And murder in its eyes.

They came through the air, without a care
In a spiralling deathly dive
In their twisted minds, they hate mankind
and any Western lives.

In a deafening crash, of shattering glass
Two explosions rocked the ground
On Manhattans streets, there was disbelief
From the people all around.

Some ran in shock, as the buildings rocked
While others stood and gazed
As emergency crews, who’d heard the news
Came rushing to their aid.

These heroic folk, clawed through the smoke
But their mission soon was cursed
Through the flames of Hell, came a deathly smell
As Satan did his worst.

Everlasting sorrow, is the scene which followed
On this dark September day
As the mighty towers, in a few short hours
Cried a tear and then gave way.

Such an awful sight, when a thing of might
comes crumbling to its knees
But its magnified, when so many died
Midst the terror, screams and pleas.

So many folk, wore deaths dark cloak
Neath the rubble and twisted steele
And the sunlight strays to a blacked out haze
In a scene that is so surreal.

As the sirens wail, bricks rain like hail
Through an ocean of fallout dust
As Manhattan shakes, like a mighty Quake
From deep in the Earth’s very crust.

Two smouldering wrecks, are all that is left
Of the towers who’s fate was doomed
And a country dies, as the whole world cry’s
For the innocent folk they Entombed.

As the evening draws, the fire still roars
Leaving bright orange lights in the sea
There are tears in the eyes, of a lady nearby
She’s the Statue of Liberty.

She has stood on her Isle, for such a long while
With her head held so tall and proud
But from over the bay, where the Innocent lay
You could swear that her head was bowed.

As darkness falls, with their hands they maul
In tune to the flashing Blue lights
In their heart there’s pain, for they dig in vain
But the search will go on through the night.

Its the break of dawn, on a New York morn
But there’s something wrong today
For the birds dont sing, or prune their wings
As they greet the brand new day.

Above the ground, they make no sound
In Central parks tall trees
As the morning dew, make patterns through
The dust upon the leaves.

Then a bird flys down, towards the ground
To the old mans empty bench
In the smoke filled air, which is everywhere
There’s an awful deathly stench.

But the bird cant hear, the old mans tears
In his home where he loudly weeps
So off she flys, as the whole world crys
For a city that never sleeps.

And she’ll never know, and thankfully so
For she’d never understand
Why natures hand, is bitten by mans
Inhumanity to man.

A hazy winter sunshine
braves the February cold
and lights up all the empty seats
inside the Kemlyn Road.

The shadows fade and then reveal
a figure on his own
there is no football here today
as old Jimmy sits alone.

A forceful smile cannot conceal
his lonely pensive mood
as decades pass before his eyes
in silent solitude.

He needs to be alone today
he needs the time and space
to say farewell forever
to this special sacred place.

He gazes out across the pitch
towards the Anfield Road
and see’s the place where he first stood
when he was ten years old.

He thinks of how the times have changed
and how it’s gone so fast
as visions flash before his eyes
with players from the past.

He see’s a young Bob Paisley
running out onto the pitch
he saw him make his debut
back in 1946.

What a match he saw that day
the reds won 7-4
Balmer, Liddell, and Billy Jones
broke Chelsea’s hearts for sure.

The fifties team then take the field
but he stares down at the floor
remembering the relegation year
of 1954.

But thoughts of Shanks and Liddell
soon make his gloom subside
the flying Scotsman’s decade
saw the great man Bill, arrive.

The sun now shines upon the pitch
like gold on emerald green
Jimmy sits back, fixes his cap
then ventures back into his dreams.

He looks across at the tunnel
Ron Yeats is there at the front
followed by Smith, Ian St John
and his Idol, Sir Roger Hunt.

The atmosphere now is electric
the sixties are filled with emotion
the Kop sings along to Beatles songs
and the football is poetry in motion.

The seventies thoughts are amazing
Anfield was blessed with king Kevin
then goose bumps rise upon his arm
as he thinks of 77.

The night when the whole ground erupted
to the volcanic red and white sound
of “We shall not, we shall not be moved”
which lifted the roof off the ground.

Of all the matches Jimmy’s seen
since he was a boy aged 10
he’ll never forget the ecstasy
that night against St Etiene.

He smiles then thinks of the 80’s
when trophies and legends were many
Rushy runs through, plays a one two
with the magic, mercurial Kenny.

His thoughts turn to Beardsley and Aldo
and the brilliance which that team did bring
he then hears the tune from ‘Black beauty’
as Barnes does his stuff down the wing.

The nineties bring mixed emotions
as memories freeze with the cold
not such great times, inside his mind
but maybe he’s just getting old.

He wishes he was much younger
so that he could re-live again
the years of unparalleled glory
which will come under Houllier’s men.

He closes his eyes for a moment
feels the back of his throat run dry
his old hands begin to tremble
for now he must say his goodbye.

His lips are pressed tight together
he covers his eyes with his hands
he’s then overcome with emotion
as he sits all alone in the stand.

A lifetime of magical memories
has sadly now come to an end
he takes a deep breath then whispers
farewell to this life long friend.

He slowly turns up his coat collar
as he rises up to his feet
then thinks of his son and his grandson
who’ll inherit his treasured old seat.

And now for the moment he’s dreaded
as he leaves the place that he loves
a tear rolls through his white whiskers
which he dries on the back of his glove.

The shadows now fall on the Kemlyn
Old Jimmy’s time is now through
he stands for a while in an exit
turns around then fades out of view.

That night in the sky above Anfield
a new star shines down from above
it will stay for all eternity
to light up the place that it loves.

The warmth of its glow is forever
as it shines down on old Jimmy’s lad
who stares at the sky from the kemlyn
when he thinks of his dear old dad.

And from the line, this legend
would then dance into the middle
he’d then unleash a thunderbolt
as the crowd sang “Billy Liddell.”

he left his home in Perthshire
in the summer of 38
but world war 2, would intervene
before his name was ‘great.’

An R.A.F. navigator
was his roll in world war 2
and with sir Matt, and shanks
was capped in 1942.

But when the war was over
he sure made up for lost time
as Liverpool’s leading scorer
in 8 seasons out of 9.

Give it to Billy, Give it to Billy
was the song the kopites roared
as he sent them into ‘ecstasy’
with every goal he scored.

Football then , unlike today
was not so laced with gold
you’d have to find another job
to provide, when you got old.

His academic education
was to stand him in good stead
he was bursar, accountant, and JP
as well as a famous red.

He represented Britain
in 47, and 55,
with the great Sir Stanley Matthew’s
together by his side.

His appearances for the redmen
totaled 537,
with 229, goal returns
a proud record to take to heaven.

The fifties was a decade
where rock n roll emerged
he was a ‘rock’ who ‘rolled’ defenders
while down the wing he surged.

My dad would always tell me
when I was a boy at school
about this brilliant legend
who they nicknamed ‘Liddell,pool.’

But through the adoration
his ego never waved
one of lifes ‘true gentlemen’
and impeccably behaved.

He truly cared for youngsters
and always gave his time
he’d stay behind for hours
till all autographs were signed.

His final days of stardom
were to start another phase
as he stepped down for ‘Sir Roger’
at the start of shanklys days.

A testimonial followed
under a dark September sky
where to this ‘flying Scotsman’
40 thousand said goodbye.

He made his home on merseyside
and said “ Im pleased I stayed “
While everyone who watched him
said “ Im very pleased you played.”

So as the decades have come and gone
many legends we have known
like Hunt-St John, Dalglish and Rush
and now Fowler and Owen.

These are all men we’v worshipped
who do wonders with a ball
but William Beverage Liddell
is sure up there with them all.

The years rolled by, and he grew old
with dignity and pride
his family Christian values
and wife ‘Phyllis’ by his side.

How sad it was to hear of you
in your lonely mental state
the same disease which struck ‘Sir Bob.’
now struck this all time great.

The old man who was crying
slowly wipes away his tears
the old man is my father
who’s adored you all these years.

I never got to see you play
I never had the pleasure
god bless you Bill, from one old man
for the memories he treasures.

VISIONS OF GOLD

At Goodison park over the years
many legends have been seen
like Ball and Kendal, Gordon West
and the immortal Dixie Dean.

These men have thrilled and entertained
remembered by young and old
but none more so than Alex Young
who gave us visions of gold.

A boy came down from Edinburgh
into nineteen sixties fame
and danced and weaved his magic
as he graced most every game.

With subtle skills of majesty
all across the turf he'd glide
and turn defenders inside out
with his ballerina stride.

His heading skills and ball control
were poetry in motion
this man was like a Golden light
in Evertons blue ocean.

It is very rare in football
but it happens now and then
were someone's born with natural skill
and becomes a shining gem.

But Alex young was one of these
one of footballs precious stones
a man who you could say was worth
the admission fee alone.

Its laughable beyond belief
and disgracefully unfair
that players now, with half his skill
should end up millionaires

And then want Testimonials
through selfish and wanton greed
while brilliant players from days gone by
end up in a state of need.

How fitting after all these years
that the club should play a game
to salute 'The Golden Vision'
and pay homage to his name.

We'll never forget the sixties
when the Beatles songs were sung
hippies, Kennedy, rocket ships
and the name of Alex Young.

For he was such a gifted player
his skill, a joy to behold
we thank him for those special times
when we saw visions of gold.

Dave Kirby

In the bootroom high above the clouds
sit bob and shanks, with both heads bowed
for the knock at the door, is someone they know
they stand to welcome ‘Smokin Joe.’

Born in Walton 1921
he showed potential , early on
where he fulfilled his childhood dream
by captaining his schoolboys team.

On every Saturday afternoon
in the ‘old boys pen’ at Liverpool
amongst the little kopite cubs
stood the future coach, of this great club.

A centre half stood tall and mean
at county level, when aged 16
it was then in 1938
you became one of the ‘Maine rd’ greats.

It was in the navy during the war
where his qualities, came to the fore
where tactics, fire, and discipline
are instilled inside the minds of men.

Liverpool FC rejoice the day
1958, in the month of may
“ who was this coaching mystery “
the rest, as they say is history.

Together with shanks, your skills excelled
you were fair, but firm, and never yelled
“ He’s the finest coach in the country now “
said Bobby Robson, of Ipswich Town.

Under sir Bob , you’re promoted once more
‘Assistant manager’, read the sign on your door
the players adored you, through respect and pride
one big happy family, with uncle Joe by their side.

In the spring of 1983
you finally fulfilled your destiny
the local boy, from Litherland Town
was finally handed, his ‘cap and gown.’
The way to describe the next 2 years
is ‘ecstatic joy ‘, then ‘painful tears’
the joy, from Rome, and treble fame
to the Heysel stadium’s , hurt and shame.

You decided then, to quit the game
and let king kenny, take the reins
at 64, and a lifelong red
“ Im too old and tired “, is what you said.

And so you slipped out of the light
not out of mind, or out of sight
to most ‘home games’, he’d walk with fans
that was the measure of this man.

Thats how we’ll all remember you
you did the things, the fans would do
we thank you Joe, with true emotion
for 26 years, of true devotion.

Back in the clouds, after a warm embrace
these 3 red legends, take their place
the kettles on, the tactics begin
Joe’s happy now, with that famous grin.

For now he’s back, amongst his mates
and takes his place, with the all time greats
that bootroom spirit, which used to flow
now has the spirit, of smokin Joe.

In all the years we've been apart
I thought that time would heal my heart
But the hurt came back just yesterday
It never really goes away.

Came back from Cardiff full of joy
I hugged my daughter and little boy
I ask this question again and again
Why weren't you spared to do the same.

My mind drifts back into the past
Some thirty years, it's gone so fast
Two teenaged boys whole lives ahead
Off down to Wembley draped in red.

A homemade flag we took that day
Its uncomparable to today
An old bedsheet, a bottle of dye
About eight foot long and four foot high.

It took so long to make that thing
Scissors, cotton, you would bring
Every evening after school
Sewing on the letters of Liverpool

Down to London, midnight train
Attempts to sleep were all in vain
Euston is cold at four am
That flag came in handy once again.

Snuggled in our flag, like peas in a pod
At 6.45 we were woken by 'plod'
"wake up now boys, you cant sleep there"
So off on a tube to Trafalgar square.

Only 8am but oh what a sight
Trafalgar was bouncing as if it were night.
The black and white Geordies, the Liverpool red,
As the statue of Nelson looked on overhead.

About three hundred strong, we then marched without malice
Through Marble Arch to Buckingham Palace
"Let's wake up the Queen" you said for a joke
With our flag tied around you like batman's cloak.

All day around London it was much the same theme
So proud of our city, and the flag of our team
We hung it from buses, we hung it from trains
And as we hit Wembley, up it went once again.

The whole day was perfect, and so was our team
The most one sided final that I've ever seen
I can never forget the joy on your face
As we lifted the cup, then we turned and embraced.

As the years went by and we grew into men
We'd meet up every now and again
We'd talk of old times and things we had done
The Exorcist, Jaws and Band on the Run

I remember so vividly the day I found out
That God, had called your number out
I thought of your parents, I thought of your John
I thought of your wife and your three year old son.

But death has no mercy, doesn't play by the rules
To take a man in his thirties, is so very cruel
You fought it so hard but always in vain
Then the Trumpets sounded and the Angels came.

Some three years later I was round at my Mum's
Looking through all the old photo albums
When my ma shouted from the bottom of the stairs
"There's a bin bag of yours on the spare room chair".

Inside the bag there was all sorts of things
Old programmes, scarves and a book called "Kop Kings"
Ticket stubbs, news clips, things I'd not seen for years
Then I stumbled on something which reduced me to tears

I stared for a moment in disbelief
My whole body went weak, overcome with grief
For there near the bottom of this old memory bag
Folded up nice and neat was our homemade flag

I closed my eyes as I opened it up
My heart was racing as I finally looked
I wept like a child as I kneeled on the floor
As I thought of that day back in '74

I held it so tight as I whispered your name
Oh Tommy I wish I could see you again
Had I known it was here I'd have done my best
To drape it around you when they laid you to rest

But alas, now its mine and it always will be
When I open it out it's your face I can see.
Adventures and memories that will always last
That flag is my window into the past.

So, goodnight God bless Tom until my next prayer
I know that your spirit is around somewhere
You could be millions of miles on some heavenly star
But when I'm holding our flag you are never that far.

Tommy McFadden 1958-1995