Port Vale

At Vale Park’s humble terraces,
Where Burslem’s heart beats steady, true,
The Valiants march in claret and white,
A loyal throng in sky‑blue hue.

From bygone days of grit and graft,
Through triumphs chased and losses borne,
The echo of each chant, each laugh,
Is woven deep in Staffordshire’s morn.

No glossy glare, no foreign flair,
Just honest toil on well‑worn grass,
The keeper’s dive, the striker’s flare,
A simple joy that comes to pass.

So here’s to Port Vale, our steadfast pride,
Where passion wears a northern guise.