Letras
Our spire is crooked
But our shots are bullets
We'll take a minute
To start what's finished
As the fourth oldest club in the country
We'll fight for all and sundry
And when it's wet and windy
At least the pitch stays dry
Because we've said our prayers
Chesterfield
Chesterfield
Chesterfield
Chesterfield
Chesterfield
Chesterfield
What silver will we yield
Our spire is crooked
The weather took it
Unseasoned timbers
And now it's famous
We can't believe the wood
Is more famous than us
We love our little club
It represents us
And this we're certain of
Our fans are down the pub
Talking of the game
And moaning just the same
Chesterfield
Chesterfield
Chesterfield
Chesterfield
Chesterfield
Chesterfield
What silver will we yield