[Spoken] The mood changes as I sing you an eery song, so spine-chilling that it'll make the bogles on your posset stand on end. It is the story of a bold highwayman called the Black Grunger of Hounslow and his exploits.

Oh, list while I sing of a highwayman bold;
His feats were remarkable, so we are told:
He'd wurdle the ladies and scrope all the men,
Then he'd straddle his nadger and ride off again.

Prooraloo, prooralay,
Singing, fiddle me grummets and scrumple me plume.

They caught him and hung him from Old Tyburn Tree,
But ere the note screebled, his gherka quoth he:
"If I had my time to live over again,
I'd scrope all the ladies and wurdle the men."

Prooraloo, prooralay,
Singing, fiddle me grummets and scrumple me plume.

[Spoken] However, they strung him and his horse up, and they do say as how his ghost rides abroad even to this day, haunting the place where he once straddled his nadger so gaily. Only unfortunately they built a supermarket on the site, and on early-closing day his wraith can be seen a-gallopin', gallopin' along the bacon counter... and... and manifestin' itself... behind the crystallized fruits... And as he gallops, he sings:

My tale it is ended, my song it is sung,
As me and my horse, we have both been well hung;
And as I'm a phantom my only recourse
Is to scrope by myself and to wurdle my horse.

Prooralay, prooralah,
Singing, fiddle me grummets and scrumple me plu-u-ume.