The Muntons of Moorgate

The Muntons of Moorgate

The Muntons of Moorgate appears on the Sid Kipper album Boiled In The Bag

Additional verses were broadcast in the Channel4 Radio series The Kipper Country Code

Oh Martha this Knapton's a quite frightful sight,

There's nothing much happens by day or by night.

There isn't a street lamp in all of the town,

And they're digging for what they call 'spuds' in the ground.

It looked awfully simple, despite all the mud,

So I gave them a hand at this digging for 'spuds';

Now my aching back makes me wish I could stand,

Where the Charing Cross Road sweeps down to the Strand.

You remember Judge Jenkins from Mayfair, of course -

Well I saw him today dangling under a horse.

I asked if the rider should not be on top,

And he promised to try that, if he could get it to stop.

So while we tried halting this nag in its path,

The whole population stopped working to laugh;

For such disrespect he would see them all hanged,

Where the Charing Cross Road sweeps down to the Strand.

Now some of the girls here, one does have to say,

Are quite striking, in a naive sort of way.

I met one today who had me discomposed -

She painted a picture with cheeks like a rose.

But when at those roses I ventured to sip,

I found she'd used gloss, and she stuck to my lip.

Now we live cheek by jowl - well, they'd not understand

Where the Charing Cross Road sweeps down to the Strand.

So Martha this letter must serve to explain

That I'll soon be returning to London again.

My night are all spent in the counting of sheep,

Then the birds wake me up just as I get to sleep.

The views are too roomy, the people ill-dressed,

And the air from the pig sties is simply too fresh;

I can't wait for the fog that comes rolling so grand,

Where the Charing Cross Road sweeps down to the Strand.

Additional verses

I recall that when writing you idly enquired

As to how were the people of Knapton attired.

Well you could not be sure, with some that I've met,

If they'd dressed for a fancy dress bll, or a bet.

There's no haute couture, there's no sense of style,

And no manicurist for miles and miles.

They'd all be arrested as vagrants, and banned,

Where the Charing Cross Road sweeps down to the Strand.

You'll have heard that the countryside mostly contains

Harmonious blacksmiths and soft singing swains.

Well if they exist, which I very much doubt,

The noise of the wildlife drowns them quite out

My nights are all spent in the counting of sheep,

Till the birds wake me up just as I get to sleep.

I can't wait for the fog that comes rolling so grand,

Where the Charing Cross Road sweeps down to the Strand.

Oh Martha the countryside seems quite unfit,

For vileness and vice, for it hasn't the wit.

Yet when in that Eden one reluctantly dwells

It seems that the denizens know little else.

They do as they please, and lie to your face,

But worst of all simply do not know their place;

With cuffs and with chains they'd be taken in hand,

Where the Charring Cross Road sweeps down to the Strand.