A mist rolls down the hill
And I can hear ya
Steps that thud
And a voice to crack a vase
Home from work in the pit
And you are jet black
Call in on your way
To see ya ma's
I can see her standing in her kitchen
Red faced with a pinny round her waist
Baking bread and making a meaty hash
And spouting “too much rush and too much haste”
A fine pot of tea she'll be brewing
Strong and brown, holds the weight of a spoon
Then she will hear that familiar dulcet note
And know it's her boy who cannot hold a tune
Her boy is a strapping lad of thirty five now
Though still the apple of his mother's eye
She will stuff him full of slabs of buttered bread
And wave him off as he loudly sings goodbye