We built our home way up high

Where the mountain scrapes the sky

But don’t you sometimes wonder why

We get no visitors you and I?

Perhaps it’s because the path is steep

And often blocked by wayward sheep

Perhaps it’s because the cold wind blows

And all year round it snows and snows

Maybe it’s due to that habit of ours

Of making them pray for hours and hours

While their mutton stew grows cold

It doesn’t taste nice when it’s old

Perhaps it’s because of way we look

Your tangled beard, my nose like a hook

Your piercing, glaring, cross-eyed stare

My unprepossessing gingery hair

Maybe it’s due to something we said

That made their faces flush bright red

Like when you said you’d go to bed

With Netty Hinkle’s uncle Ted

But honestly we prefer the privacy

Of never having guests to tea

Because then it’s only you and me

And we’re very experimental see?

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