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He came with the club when it barely had form,
A spark in the shadows, a calm in the storm.
From Wimbledon’s end to a future unknown,
He built something lasting, and called it his own.
The shirts may have changed, the faces too,
But one man stayed when the others withdrew.
He wore number three with unshakable pride,
In a world full of change, he stood and he tried.
No headlines were needed, no fuss nor parade,
Our Lewie let loyalty make the crusade.
Twenty years on, and he’s still standing tall—
Through each rise and each fall, he’s given it all.
He broke every record with grace and with grit,
Over 900 times in that armband he’d sit.
And through every chapter, through sorrow and song,
It was Lewie who led, who carried us long.
Down the NHS, cold seats and hope,
Where fans clung tight to belief just to cope.
And just when it looked like the drop would appear,
Gareth Edds struck—and Lewie was near.
Wembley in spring, silver held high,
Grimsby defeated beneath the blue sky.
And now, full circle, the journey completes,
Grimsby again in his final home feat.
He’s seen it all—this club’s every beat,
From empty old stands to Championship feats.
And through it all, one thing's remained:
That unmistakable hair, unruffled, untamed.
The Heel of God—how sweet was that blow,
As we silenced our past in a proud, righteous show.
Then came United, giants brought to their knees,
A 4-0 for the ages, the loudest of dreams.
Who could forget that last-day delight,
Yeovil undone in the warm May light.
Two goals from the skipper—promotion was sealed,
A dream realised on that glorious field.
He’s stepped in as gaffer when we needed a steer,
Guiding the lads through moments unclear.
Not just the captain, but calm in the storm—
Lewie the leader in every form.
He’d spar with the ref like it meant the world,
A protest, a point, a brow tightly furled.
Not angry, not reckless, just part of the game—
A captain defending the club’s very name.
A master of falling with barely a touch—
The Lewington lived, and we all loved it much.
Yet for all of the legends, he never once bragged,
Just cleaned up his boots and ironed the flag.
He’s spoken through tackles, through bloodied old shins,
Never seeking the spotlight, just chasing the wins.
Fans call him legend, he shrugs with a smile,
Just a bloke who’s been here a fair little while.
But he’s more than that—he’s the soul of this team,
The beating red heart of the MK Dons dream.
The world has changed since that very first game,
But Lewie remains, eternally same.
With passion that burned and never once dimmed,
Through stormclouds and sunshine, through thick and through thin.
So tomorrow, dear Grimsby, bear witness and see
A warrior bow with quiet dignity.
No fuss, just a moment, a clap, maybe tears—
For the man who gave us the greatest of years.
Thank you, Dean Lewington. Forever our own.
Our captain. Our constant. Our cornerstone.
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