Wandering minstrels blow their bubbles and the music makes my troubles wander too.

In the pipes of Pan where Loki lurks to entice strangers, see his works of trickery, not for me the rooting ram nor the nabob I'm the stay at home and feet up comfy man.

She plays the price of whist, solo twist it stick while down East London way in Hackney Wick they build pontoons to ford 'Old Ford' a trick the Romans knew.

Running through each mountain pass like a river steaming in the dawn I become a molten mass of limitless enthusiasm only to fall into the gaping jaws of the waiting chasm which was waiting all the time for me,
I am much better the comfy man than one who spans the continents, explodes into the elements.

I call for tea
she says make your own,
in my home she is the castle
and the queen.