Stoke City

At the banks where Trent’s slow waters wind,
The red and white of Stoke endure,
From Burslem’s kilns to modern wind,
Where faithful hearts remain secure.

The Potters rise on winter’s chill,
Their chants a hymn of grit and grace,
At bet365 they stand still—
A fortress in this Midland place.

From Stanley Matthews’ wizard feet
To every tackle, roar, and sigh,
The club’s long story—bitter, sweet—
Is woven deep beneath the sky.

So here’s to Stoke, the clay‑crafted side,
Whose pride burns on through rain or shine,
A loyal band, a town’s own tide,
Forever marching, line by line.