The Christmas Rambler last stepped out
on the feast of Stephen,
When the mud lay round about,
deep and soft and uneven.
Brightly shone the moon that night,
though the council were cruel,
letting this bloke trash a path,
for ground source heating fuel.
Hither Rambler and stand by me
If thou know it telling:
yonder peasant who is he?
And is that his fancy dwelling?
Sire he has no common sense
And keeps us off this mountain
Have you seen his electric fence?
Get off my land I hear him shouting!