The AB railtrack is twenty miles away,
And Saturday is loud with foolish and idiot voices speaking,
Yet there isn't a train goes by all day
And I hear Ed's suspension mods' whistles shrieking.
All Nungate Towers evening there isn't a train goes by,
Though the night is still for tailcock drinking and dreaming,
But I see the chimney cinders red on the sky,
And hear the Towers' boilers steaming.
Our hearts are warm with the MoFC friends we make,
And better friends we'll not be knowing;
Yet there isn't a Southern Rail train we wouldn't take,
No matter where it's going.
Not even Lothian.