(Here's one I put in the oven before.  It'll have to put me on until I fabricate something new.) 

His spirit walks the terraces on Saturdays at three;

He's in the breezes blowing and the dust-whirls that you see;

That tingling of your hairline's when he touches you and me;

He's here, son; he's here at White Hart Lane.

Today you'd say he played midfield – in those days, inside right;

He gets his name from finding space when the marking's tight

The bloodline of the game was coursed through Blanchflower to John White

The essence of the script at White Hart Lane.

Danny said there's more to this than playing just to win;

There's glory and there's style and the passion from within;

So when you start to follow Spurs the place we all begin's

In the presence of the Ghost of White Hart Lane.

He's in the cheek of Jimmy Greaves and Klinsman's artistry;

He's in the perfect pass of Hoddle played exquisitely;

He's in the cockerel on the flag which shows THFC;

He laughs and weeps with us here at the Lane.

He's in the skills of Ossie – the crafty Argentine;

He's Ricky Villa's mazy goal, the greatest Wembley's seen;

He's when Perryman lifts the Cup he's taken off the Queen

Like an urn that holds the Ghost of White Hart Lane.

He's Lineker and Ginola and Nicholson and Pleat;

He's Gazza's goal at Wembley handing Arsenal defeat;

And in that photo when Mackay lifts Bremner off his feet;

It belongs to we who pilgrim to the Lane.

But now we court Olympic dreams if once the contract's signed

Abandoning the templed turf to tear the ties that bind;

But it isn't Tottenham Hotspur to leave John White behind

And lose the soul and Ghost of White Hart Lane.