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The Sheffield Turnstiles by Chris Towers

Strong winds take us over the Sheffield Road,

like loose laundry blowing from a slack line,

home to the club and their sweetest abode,

as we head for those turnstiles, just in time.

 

Perhaps we run to The Coach and Horses,

to toast the old club in their red and black,

we may run together or join forces,

share a cab, huddle on seats, front to back.

 

But we run for ‘stiles forever turning,

the clickety-click, forever clacking,

at the seasons end we are a yearning,

for the Sheffield gates, for ever clanking.

 

Our love of the club is so discerning,

we swoon at the sound of turnstiles turning.