They found him up by Top Moor Road.
He was wandering stuporous and dazed,
And when they took his glasses off
His eyes were crossed and glazed.
He‘d been suppin' in the Spectre's Head
A tourist down for the local sights,
Trying to impress the regulars with
Tales of his London boozy nights.
He'd laughed with scorn and derision
When told by Bert Evans, Mine Hoste
About the presence on our moors and
Streets of Mad Meg, the wailing ghost.
One thing led to another and so on,
The way these things sometimes do;
The tourist said it was just a daft tale,
Ted insisted it was bloody really true.
So the tragedy inexorably unfolded
As the terms of a wager were set;
He would sit on Top Moor
Just to win that foolish bet.
He didn't speak for three weeks
After they brought him down;
Just lay stiff and semi comatose in our
Local hospital at the centre of our town.
Constable Perkins, duty officer that night
Said he'd never forget those words uttered
After he'd stirred quite a bit and turned,
Twisted, groaned, incoherently muttered:
Then suddenly he'd stiffened
Sat bolt up right
His eyes full of horror
From that fateful night.
Tuppenny single to Wetwang
He'd very clearly said
Then with a scream of anguish
Fell back stone dead.
Mad Meg of the Moors they call her
And she's always dressed in white
And she's looking for a bus stop
As she wanders through the night.