At Goodison Park over the years
many legends have been seen 
like Ball and Kendall, Gordon West 
and the immortal Dixie Dean.

These men have thrilled and entertained 
remembered by young and old 
but none more so than Alex Young 
who gave us visions of gold.

A boy came down from Edinburgh 
into nineteen sixties fame 
and danced and weaved his magic 
as he graced most every game.

With subtle skills of majesty 
all across the turf he’d glide 
and turn defenders inside out 
with his ballerina stride.

His heading skills and ball control 
were poetry in motion; 
this man was like a shining light 
in Everton's blue ocean.

It is very rare in football 
but it happens now and then 
were someone’s born with natural skill 
and becomes a shining gem.

But Alex Young was one of these – 
one of football's precious stones – 
a man who you could say was worth 
the admission fee alone.

It's laughable beyond belief 
and disgracefully unfair 
that players now, with half his skill, 
should end up millionaires

And then want Testimonials 
through selfish and wanton greed 
while brilliant players from days gone by 
end up in a state of need.

How fitting after all these years 
that the club should play a game 
to salute ‘The Golden Vision’ 
and pay homage to his name.

We’ll never forget the Sixties 
when the Beatles songs were sung; 
hippies, Kennedy, rocket ships 
and the name of Alex Young.

For he was such a gifted player 
his skill, a joy to behold 
we thank him for those special times 
when we saw visions of gold.

When rivers flow from sea to source,

When the cat makes peace with the mouse.

When the dustcart is drawn by a five-legged horse,

And the Cockney can speak pure Scouse.

When Sinners are welcomed in Heaven,

When Saints are consigned to Hell.

When nine minus four totals seven,

And badgers in birds’ nests dwell.

When honey is made by Black Widows,

When cobwebs are woven by bees.

When the sun sinking low casts short shadows,

And banknotes are plucked from the trees.

When the Dead climb back out of their coffins,

When the Living lie down in their stead,

Then shall we forsake The Toffees,

And follow the Anfield Reds.

Street End clock: five to three – the tones of Z-Cars fall
Meat pies too hot to eat; Harvey, Kendall, Ball.

A long wait to beat the Reds, hear the Street End sing
Get in there, you beauty – Oh, Andy is our King!

Sometimes pain – cushions rain; get the manager out
A bad back-pass saved his ass; "Messiah" now the shout.

Bayern came and tried their luck, now we're on our way
Rotterdam is calling; feel the terrace sway.

Champions everyone, we`ve been to heaven and hell
The memories of Goodison; now it`s time to say farewell

A team made from Kendall, Harvey and Ball
Fat Latch, Jumpin' Duncan and Big Barry Horne
Alex Young is a vision still gold to this day
And I'll eat my hat if that's not Andy Gray

There's Tricky Trevor, (I'd swear that's a wig)
With Big Davey Hickson, the Cannonball Kid
Beautiful football, played on the floor
Morrissey hovers - Big Dunc's bound to score

Joe is our Royle and Andy our King
And Archangel Gabriel's on the right wing
Sharpie's our Braveheart, spilling blood for the cause
While Labby and Waggy compare their back 4's

Catterick is whispering his dressing room secrets
And Reidy is constantly shouting expletives
The spirit is present of William Ralph Dean
And they still won't serve Inchy until he's 18

Derek Mountfield is welcome; he can score on his knees
For free kicks at Ipswich, it's gotta be Sheeds
Mike Lyons is with us but his curls have all gone
We love Shagger Stevens; but still hate Big Ron

And there's Tommy Wright-back all covered in mud
I can see Kevin Ratcliffe - he's lifting the cup
Kenyon and Whittle are fearless you know
And there's Martin Dobson - a great big Hello

Lawton and Mercer and Bingham and Brace
Parkie, the Pieman is still making space
Big Nev and Westie are guarding the goal
And all is at peace in my blue-blooded soul

And as I awaken, in bed in my room
I wait for the whistle; it's got to be soon
In the 94th minute, he scores when he shoots
And all I can see is a blur of white boots.

She stands alone, aloft and proud
Amidst a sea of dross
Never Moving, ever true to all who come inside
A place of love and worship, a place where lovers bide

Her stands are strong, like towers
above the terraced lines.
She ushers in her children, she drives their parents mad.
She welcomed my Grandfather when he was but a lad.

Sam Chedgzoy, Young the first,
Dixie, Mercer, Jones.
All had pause to look around in awe when first they came.
And later, in my childhood, too, others sought their fame.

Royston swerved, Alex soared
And Gordon, caked in mud.
A hundred thousand Woodies, a half a million teas.
The smoke would billow round her roofs. The roars, the groans, the
pleas.

And now, her paint is faded
She shudders in the cold.
They say it's time to leave her be, to try another field.
she's past her best, she's lost her looks. It's time for her to yield.

So build your concrete monster
Build your Village theme.
Pull the lady down, you thugs, and make another start.
Take away the history, pull the lady down. Go on, then, break my heart.

You'll never build another.
When Goodison goes down.
You'll never, ever, recreate that lovely lady's soul.
Which lies upon the terrace, when many years ago,
My father, just a boy of twelve, saw Dixie score THAT goal.

I've been to all the others
Those soulless, heartless holes.
Edifices made of sand, cement, and no-one's love.
Surrounded by the open fields, roomy and forlorn
No corner shop, no Chippy, no Pub, no queues
No push and shove.

A hundred years of history
A million billion dreams.
She holds them all within her arms, and that's where they will stay.
If you remove the lady, the dreams will fade away.
Little Bobby Collins; Labby, calm and in command.
Davie, locks akimbo, charging at the Street;
Pull her down. Go on then.
For hope, defeat.

Franny is a Superstar, he'll tell you that for sure
He wears a chunky bracelet, and drives a 4x4
He only earns eight grand a week, Oh bless the little fella!
He smacked that crappy goalkeeper, and turned the Red Twat yella

 

Franny scores great goals for fun, the Charlton one was sweet
He feeds off Super Kevin, he's got such tricky feet.
And if the Blues don't win the Cup, well, don't have any fears
We'll cover him with foil instead, and lift him by the ears

 

He once asked for a transfer – his head just got too big
He'd only played a dozen games; the fans thought: "What a prig!"
But after getting dropped so quick, he realised his folly
His tail fell right between his legs, 'n he apologized to Wally

 

So, despite being Billy No-Brain, and something of a scally
All we want is Franny-boy to add to that goal tally
For all his faults, he's still a kid, and just like me or you
He's a life-long Evertonian; his blood runs Royal Blue.

The lamp was lit, the curtains drawn as around the fire they sat
The old man, his grandson and a puppy dog on the mat.
The old man was thumbing his scrapbook, with the memories of days gone by And, as he gazed at the pictures, the young boy heard him sigh.

"Why do you watch Everton granddad?" asked the boy with an innocent smile
"I don't rightly know", said the old man, "but I don't think I'm going senile."
"For I can remember when Everton was the team that made others look up
And we didn't have to rely for glory on replays of the Football League Cup.

"We had players like Dean, Lawton and T.G. Jones, their names just roll of my tongue."
"And even as late as the Sixties we had Alan Ball and Alex Young."
"But that's all in the past now, granddad", said the young boy stroking his pup.
"It's said they're called The Toffees because everyone chews them up."

"Ah, things are like that in football lad", said the old man with his wisdom of years.
"Sometimes you're drowning in champagne, but mostly you're choking on tears."
"It happens to all the other clubs, your United, your Cities, sometimes even at the Kop"
"There can only be one winner in football, only one team can finish on top."

"So I keep my faith in Everton lad, even though they bring me pain."
"And, who knows, now that we've got Kendall back we might be champions once again."
Then the young boy looked up at his granddad, whose eyes were covered in mist.
And he whispered: "You're not going senile granddad, you're going round the bloody twist!"

Each week they meet at Gwladys Street in masochistic gloom 
They congregate to celebrate another day of doom 
For at Everton they like to moan and castigate their team 
And all agree there'll never be another Dixie Dean 

Its Derby Day but few will say this time the Blues will win 
For Liverpool have always ruled and probably will again 
Gordon Lee's in ecstasy at every goal they score 
But then the Reds come back from dead to score a couple more 

If Telfer could and Georgie Wood they'd stop them going in 
And Darracot might stop the rot and help the Blues to win 
Andy's King of everything and Thomas doubts no more 
And if Billy Wright can pass on sight Mackenzie's sure to score 

Pearson. Dobson got to go some or they'll lose it all 
And life with Lyons is very trying if he don't get the ball 
The Anfield backs form in a pack with smooth efficiency 
Pejic toils to break the wall and Latchford has the key 

The Chairman could but little would desire to change a thing 
The fans agree and therefore "We Shall Not Be Moved" they sing 
Some Clubs are broke they have no poke can't buy no players they're skint 
But the Toffees rank above the Bank on a level with the Mint 

Yet still their band of loyal fans prefer to disavow 
If they won the Cup they'd just shut up and say "we can't think how"
Preston are proud and Spurs shout loud and Leeds are number one
But the Goodison Roars are heard no Moores, they whisper EV-ER-TON.

When at Thy call my weary feet I turn
The gates of paradise are opened wide
At Goodison I know a man can learn
Rapture more rich than Anfield can provide.

In Coulter's skill and Geldard's subtle speed
I see displayed in all its matchless bounty
The power of which the heavens decreed
The fall of Sunderland and Derby County.

The hands of Sagar, Dixie's priceless head
Made smooth the path to Wembley till that day
When Bolton came. Now hopes are fled
And all is sunk in bottomless dismay.

And so I watch with heart and temper cool
God's lesser breed of men at Liverpool.