Greenock Morton

At Cappielow’s green‑kissed banks they gather,
The Ton in hoops of scarlet and white,
Their chants rise like river mist over the Clyde,
A steady pulse that beats through rain‑slick night.

From youthful dribbles to veteran grit,
Each pass a thread in the town’s own cloth,
They chase the dream that lingers in the fog,
Where hope and hardship intertwine like broth.

The whistle blows, the crowd a roaring tide,
Greenock Morton marches on, steadfast and true—
A football heart that wears the borough’s pride,
Forever loyal, forever in view.