|
Down the long, crooked lane, by the brambly hedge
looms an old place called the Shady Lane Orphanage.
There all the children are singing this time of year,
trying to capture a bit of the season's cheer:
caroling, caroling, caroling, caroling.
Down the long, crooked lane, children come skipping home
from snowy fields where they play in the evening gloam'.
There from the hilltops they see the lights down below,
deep in the bog where they know they should never go
wandering, wandering, wandering, wandering.
The harvesters come with their big trucks, with ladels -
the children here each know the sound from their cradles.
They send the nog 'round the world, cartoned on shelves.
Oh how the children crave cups for themselves!
And one girl went out to the nog bog,
and ladled a pitcher to take along with her.
And one girl went out to the nog bog,
and there she encountered the Nog Bog Trog.
Out on the bog people said they had seen it roam.
Nog harvesters told a tale that would chill the bone.
Ten - twelve feet high! And with sharp teeth from ear to ear!
Arms like tree branches to make you tremble with fear!
Trembling, trembling, trembling, trembling.
One girl alone faced the trog in the winter air.
Church bells were ringing out songs in the distance there.
Armed with her pitcher, she scooped up some nog,
and shared some good cheer with the Nog Bog Trog.
|