Bradford City

Beneath the Pennine sky, where mills once roared,
A claret‑and‑amber flame still burns unscored.
Bradford City, the Bantams, stand proud and true,
Their heartbeat echoing through Valley Parade’s hue.

From the cobbled streets of Manningham to the Moor,
Fans chant in unison, a chorus evermore.
The scent of rain on terracotta, the chill of night,
Yet hope ignites brighter than the stadium’s light.

We’ve tasted glory in the FA Cup’s old embrace,
Watched heroes rise, then fall, yet keep their pace.
Each tackle, each pass, a story threaded tight,
In claret dreams we trust, through loss and delight.

So raise a scarf, let voices swell and sway,
For Bradford’s spirit never fades away.
In every corner of this Yorkshire town,
The Bantams march on—never backing down.