Leyton Orient

Brisbane Road on a Saturday grey,
Where the Lea's slow sigh meets the terrace fray.
Old brick stands watch as the kick-off nears,
The O's take the field through the passing years.

Not the roar of the giants' bright glare,
But the honest graft in the Essex air.
From '48's Olympic flame,
To the battles fought in each League One name.

The crest wears the O, both proud and true,
A symbol forged where the dockworkers drew
Their hopes and their hardships, their steady refrain:
"We Orient, we Orient, we'll never wane."

No silverware glints in the cabinet's gleam,
Just the grit of the graft, the fan's fervent dream.
Yet here in the east, where the cockneys reside,
Lies a club with a soul that won't be denied.

So here's to the O's, through thick and through thin,
To the Brisbane Road roar, and the joy that begins
When the whistle blows loud, and the colours take flight—
Orient, Orient, our East London light.