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Hand gestures to a small house,
Its owner gives thanks and in he goes;
A flashback shows him drinking; and then, later on,
He is frowning with eyes closed.

A montage of the sea,
The Pennines, and then Torquay;
Then an endless loop of bellowing folk
Fades into scenes of their plea.

Flap, flap: show me on this map
Where I'll creak upstairs and flump asleep;
Or I will suck and slurp upon this tinkling glass
Till a ding! from that barkeep.

The wind it whistles—whee!—
Oe'r the shushing, cracking sea,
Carrying my wails, my hooting, my howls
And rattling snores, finally.