Still Fighting Over the Docks
Down where the Thames rolls brown and slow,
Where the cranes once swung round and the whistles would blow,
Two clubs were born from the sweat and the grime,
Both forged in the furnaces of dockland time.
One in Canning Town, proud and tough,
The Ironworks men, made of sturdy stuff.
One further south, by the river’s flow,
Millwall’s dockers, with nowhere to go.
They shared the smoke, in sunshine and rain,
They shared aching backs and industrial pain.
Just neighbours, really, when all has been said,
Just working men earning their daily bread.
But history seldom plays things fair,
And grudges grow where there’s little to spare.
A whisper becomes a story retold,
That hardens slowly like iron grown cold.
The General Strike came roaring through,
Nineteen twenty-six, and the country knew
The mines stood still, the railways too,
And working folk faced what they had to do.
In East London streets the stories spread,
Of who stood firm and who moved ahead.
Of jobs accepted and lines that were crossed,
Of “them” and “us” and friends that were lost.
The facts now mingle with myth and folklore,
Polished and sharpened through decades more.
Yet somewhere there in the dockside din
Another layer of resentment crept in.
The docks are gone now, the cranes have died,
Glass towers stand where the stevedores plied.
The river remains, but the world has moved on,
But the memories linger long after they’re gone.
World Wars have ended across the seas,
Old enemies now friends have made their peace.
Nations once locked in mortal hate
Now share alliances and cooperate.
The French and English, after so many goes,
Have managed somehow to bury the blows.
Germany and Britain, after the war,
Built something stronger than existed before.
Yet mention Millwall in certain bars,
Or West Ham under south London stars,
And someone still may start a fight
Defending an argument with all their might.
Grandads will argue, and the fathers too,
The sons will inherit the chosen view.
They all believe that their views are right,
Grievances continue through day and through night.
And what is it now that keeps it alive?
A need to belong, perhaps to survive?
For football is never just goals, it’s old scores,
It’s memories that linger, unforgotten wars.
Some laugh about it, as rivals they booed,
Trading their insults in good humoured mood.
But still, regrettably, some cannot see
How pointless all the violence can be.
For bricks never settled a league table place,
Nor fists ever earned a cup winning race.
No punch has altered the game’s final score,
Though thousands have foolishly tried it before.
So here’s to the rivalry, it’s fierce and it’s old,
To stories exaggerated, and endlessly told.
Dockers, ironworkers, legends and folklore,
And songs that echo from the conflict and more.
But maybe one day the joke will land,
And both sides will finally understand
The docks that they fought for have long since departed,
Yet both were built by the same folks that started.
Workers in heaven now up above the sky,
Do they look down and still wonder why
Their descendants still rage with such deep devotion
Over ghosts still drifting like tides on the ocean?
Until then, the conflict will rise once again,
Across East London and down at the Den.
And somewhere a docker from years now long gone
With a shake of his head he’ll mutter, “Carry on.”
Under The Hammers 