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Morda
Coordinates: 52°50′35″N 3°03′29″W / 52.843°N 3.058°W
Morda is a village on the outskirts of the town of Oswestry, Shropshire, England, located near the border of England and Wales.
It is named after the River Morda, which, with the River Tanat, is one of the first major tributaries joining the River Severn as it wends its way from its birthplace on Plynlimon, mid-Wales, to the Bristol Channel.
Football club
Morda is home to the football club Morda United F.C., who play their home games at the Weston Road Ground. The first team are in the Mercian Regional Football League's Premier Division, whilst the reserve team are in that league's Division One.
Morda United Football Club is a football team from Shropshire with a big history in county football. The club was first founded as 'Morda F.C' in the 1800s, but folded in the mid 1900s. Following this the club was reformed in the 1970s under the name of Morda United FC.
For twenty years the club were a big name in Shopshire football, winning a number of trophies and making a name for themselves. The club have been dormant for many years, with a lack of silverware, but recently this has changed.
Radio Stations - Morda
Podcasts:
Morda
ALBUMS
- My Will Supreme released: 2007
- Azerion released: 2005
- 86 released:
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by Murray Head
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by Murray Head
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by Murray Head
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by Murray Head
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by Murray Head
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by Murray Head
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by Murray Head
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by Murray Head
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by Murray Head
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by Murray Head
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by Murray Head
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by Murray Head
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by Murray Head
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by Murray Head
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by Murray Head
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by Murray Head
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by Murray Head
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by Murray Head
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by Murray Head
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by Murray Head
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by Murray Head
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by Murray Head
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by Murray Head
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by Murray Head
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by Morodo
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by Morodo
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by Morodo
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by Morodo
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by Morodo
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by Morodo
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by Morodo
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by Morodo
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by Morodo
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by Morodo
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by Murray Attaway
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by Murray Attaway
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by Murray Attaway
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by Murray Attaway
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by Murray Attaway
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by Murray Attaway
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by Merit
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by Murda
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by Miratti
Mademoiselle
by: Murray HeadMademoiselle remembers too well
How once she was belle of the ball
Now the past she sadly recalls.
Mademoiselle lived in grand hotels
Ordered clothes by Chanel and Dior
Millionaires queued at her door.
Oh, she pleased them and teased them
She hooked them and squeezed them
Until like their empires they'd fall
She very soon learned
That the more love she spurned
The more power she yearned
Until she was belle of the ball.
Oh, Mademoiselle, such a soft machiavel
Would play bagatelle with the hearts of young men as
they fell
Mademoiselle would hide in her shell
Could then turn cast a spell on any girl
That got in her way.
She would crave all attention
Men would flock to her side
Woe betide any man who ignored
For she'd feign such affection
Then break down their pretension
When she'd won she would turn away.
Turn away, thoroughly bored.
Mademoiselle, long ago said farewell
To any love left to sell, for the sake of being belle
of the ball
Mademoiselle knows there's no way to quell
Her own private hell, just a shell,
With no heart left at all.
Poor old Mademoiselle.