| Riding through Yorkshire,
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| we come upon the ghost of a tree at Buttertubs Pass
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| Golden and green, flapping its leaves,
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| Though it is winter and there is no breeze.
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| Seven little sparrows pale as soldiers
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| Hopping in amongst the curling boughs
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| Then comes a shout from one of our party
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| Old Albert Bousefield’s fallen down a hole
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| Hope upon hope, fastened to a rope
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| Not able to ascertain how deep it goes.
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| «Albert can you hear me? |
| Make a sound!
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| If you can’t make a sound then clap two stones»
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| Leaving behind our friend in the lime pit
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| We hurry on in quiet dread
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| Into the fog, smothering the Dales
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| The raindrops are falling like the bars of a jail
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| Buried in the arsehole of the world
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| A row of burned out huts we made our beds
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| Lying awake looking up through the black wooden beams
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| I can see the Milky Way
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| Comes there a scream out of the sky
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| A great ball of fire goes hurtling by
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| Everyone’s awake now. |
| What the hell
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| is happening today? |
| It’s all so queer
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| Rising at dawn to find Thomas Knox
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| has not from his sleep been summoned forth
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| Face like a mask, fixed in a gasp,
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| We wrap him in blankets and we cover him with grass
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| Onward with our journey through Tow Law
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| Over Headley Hill, past Hanging Stone
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| Called on an inn to fill our bellies
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| With dark bloody meat and sour black beer
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| There we were warned never to stray
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| Far from the road through Kayo Bog
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| Several of the children from the village
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| Disappeared last month without a trace
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| Three hours later we go in single
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| file through a maze of moaning soil
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| Reeking of dung, droning of flies
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| The moss on the trees glows as we pass by
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| There is something awful alive in this place
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| We are most relieved to leave behind
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| The moon is a peach in the brown fields of Kibblesworth
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| It won’t be long 'til we get home
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| Cramp in our guts, bile in our throats
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| Mischief undulating through our bones
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| Suddenly the city lights around us
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| Disappearing up into the clouds
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| Seven little sparrows pale as soldiers
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| Hopping in amongst the curling boughs |