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• Artiste: Richard Dawson
• Titre: Hob
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We ascended the foaming stair To the mouth of the Hobthrush's cave Undecanted the hot wine from a nanny's throat And placed loaves on the greasy stones Our baby's lips are blue Our baby's eyes grow dim Take it off! Take it off! Take it off - the whooping cough And we'd be your eternal debtors As the doorway drew near our eldest appeared With a bundle in her arms It was clutching her tresses and nuzzling her breast And the colour was returned I used to hold him in the palm of one hand Now he's grown as tall as I am With the face of his mother veiled in downy gold On the broad shoulders of a man He is strong with the second sight In these parts held in some renown Using words not his own he veraciously foretold Of a drought when the stream was bulging When the pictures become too real He buries his nose in the bush of my beard And gently pinches my earlobe between thumb and forefinger Until the present is restored At the murmur of dawn there's a knock at the door And a small man standing by He is wearing a dogshide and flies for a crown One good eye a sparkling well in his brow I'd already acquainted myself of that voice Before he'd even spoke: "I have come to collect what is rightfully owed Rouse the boy from slept Get him bathed and dressed It is time he kept your end of the bargain" The bargain The bargain