The Slaying of the Bees
The thundering roar of Carey's boyos rocks North London to the core.
The wit and the spit of 400 conquering heroes in readiness for the war.
The brilliance emerges - 14 stones of power and perfection. The clue as to what's in store.
McEvily, McEvily so heavenly on the ball. Sweet, sweet McEvily. Through defences he tore.
But the Bees have stung, Oh, agony, agony. Dark vultures descend over Wrexham town once more. Our hero is wounded.
A once mighty Wrexham whale is shrinking and beached upon the floor.
The shattering chants get louder.
Heavenly McEvily taps his belly with defiance and whispers - "give me the ball".
McEvily, McEvily explodes upon the ball.
He devours one goal and then one more. A bull in a store.
The terraces are bouncing now as Carey's victorious heroes emit a terrifying and glorious roar.
The Bees lie slain, defeated and speechless but utterly privileged to have witnessed McEvily soar.
The band of boyos are returning now.
Back to the green pleasant valleys with a message that nobody can ignore.
McEvily, McEvily, so heavenly on the ball. Sweet, sweet McEvily.
Pound for pound the greatest of them all.
The Racecourse
There it sits so old and proud.
Its stands are glowing under the afternoon clouds.
The high and lows of heroes past,
Floodlights hanging like a ship's mast.
A chocolate wrapper blows past my feet,
As I look across rows and rows of empty red seats,
Dixies and Arfon still astound and amaze
Through the fog and nostalgia of this heavenly Welsh stage.
Joey, Joey
"Joey, Joey" is the cheer,
A mighty chorus, a bleeding ear,
The Kop sways as they chant his name,
A Zulu beat to an electric game.
The rain beats down on Joey's clenched fist,
A glorious gesture in the Racecourse mist.
The fighter, the poet, the gentleman too,
The most fearsome defender in Division Two.
The Ballad of Glanford Park
The sun was shining at Glanford Park on that fateful day,
A new season upon us and Waynne gleamed in the summer rays.
This Wrexham giant was honest and brave just like an ox.
A Welsh 'B' international who would run from box to box.
The clock struck three and the ref's whistle blew,
And Waynne got the ball and prodigious skills he did show.
But high above that Northern town a black cloud slowly grew.
Seven minutes had elapsed when that fateful tackle flew.
The air stood still. No sound was heard above the gasps of shock
As poor Waynne's leg snapped in two just like a stick of rock.
The fickle jab of Lady Luck had left our mighty warrior slain.
A legend is taken to casualty as the others get on with the game.
The Calypso King
The crowd's on fire and moving rhythmically to an infectious Calypso beat.
The grey Racecourse night is set ablaze by a flashing smile and those dazzling, dancing feet.
From Trench Town to Johnstown, from Brymbo to Tobago,
Two worlds divided, united in worship of this famous Wrexham hero.
"Hector, Hector," the crowd roars. A trigger for this lightning flash of ebony and ecstasy to explode.
As he limbos past the flailing tackles a smile emerges on the world weary face of a watching Mr Rhodes.
From Colwyn Bay to Montego Bay, from Minera to Mombasa.
Two worlds divided, united in worship of this famous African hero.
The Wrexham desperado
In the stand he would stand,
Wrexham through and through.
Cowboy hat, snakeskin boots,
A Wrexham desperado with football roots.
Elvis stains on a lilac cup,
The Racecourse mutter, the scolded sup.
Hightown Noon, Brando, linedancing, Garth Crooks.
The Wrexham cowboy watches from above.
From a saloon in the skies over Wrexham,
Bourbon in hand, he plays cards with a Mexican.
But when Saturday comes this cowboy from Cefn,
Still watches the game from his kop seat in heaven.
God Hands
He stands between the posts so tall,
This giant of a man.
He gets in position to block each ball,
Or punch some if he can.
His kick can take the ball most of the way down the field
And puts blind fear in the other team,
And their utter panic is often revealed
When the Wrexham forwards rush after it.
He's saved the Reds from many a defeat, with that there is no quibble,
So give good cheer you Koppite fans, for 'God Hands' - Andy Dibble.
Steve Buxton
Ol' Father Racecourse Remembers (Part I): Steve Buxton
Well, there be some players never make the top,
And, oh, it's not for want of trying, boy.
For years I watched Stephen Buxton as I hover above the Kop.
A tiny striker, scruffy kit, a pinball wizard with hair- a curly mop.
Yes, Bucko had that purity that shone throughout the game.
But sadly crowd sleights and shortened height meant knocking on his door never came the knuckle of fame.
Well, old Bucko no longer plys his trade on my green expanse of turf
But, son, the memories of this atom bomb still radiate on the Geiger Counter deep within my earth
A bravehearted lion with battered knees from being trod on by the centre-back.
The forgotten little giant of Wrexham town who worked at Tetrapak.
