Les Barker
It were a wild wet night in Mossley
And the wind howled down from the moors;
Sheep huddled in their sleeping bags,
And shepherds wore woolly underwear indoors.
Down from the hills with the wind and the rain
They came and pillaged and destroyed;
And looted and raped and wrote nasty things about Princess Anne on walls;
It were the terrible horde of Ghengis Ackroyd.

He sat astride his horse, wild and indomitable
Like Michael Foot is;
He lived on wine and wealth and women
And pickled eggs and tripe butties.
His men drank horse liniment and Domestos
And pints of Dukham's and Courage, then rode out into the void;
They got a 53 at Belle Vue and took their horses upstairs,
Did the terrible horde of Ghengis Ackroyd.

And the driver called upstairs
"There'll be no rape and pillage on my 53 bus."
And he showed them the appropriate regulations:
"No rape or pillage or setting fire to nuns." and he made quite a fuss,
So they got off and let his tyres down;
They're nasty when they're annoyed.
And then they laid seige to the UCP tripe works,
Did the terrible horde of Ghengis Ackroyd.

For twenty years they besieged it,
All to no avail,
Then they built a wooden cow
And hid inside its tail.
The foolish tripe workers took it inside
And were wooden horse of Troyed
By a thousand savages and four udders;
The terrible horde of Ghengis Ackroyd.

They put a wheel on each corner of the building,
Stuck a steering wheel on the roof with strong glue;
They poured petrol down the chimney
And drove off up the M62.
They left behind in Levenshulme
Two hundred tripe workers, unemployed;
Their tripe works was now in Cleckheaton
With the terrible horde of Ghengis Ackroyd.

But the men of Levenshulme were bent on revenge,
For life without tripe is no fun;
So they got on their bikes and pedalled to Cleckheaton
Behind their great Irish leader, Attila O'Hun.
Attila rode a two litre brass bedstead with an outboard motor and twin carbs;
And he swore by Almighty Selwyn Lloyd
He'd get back the tripe works
From the terrible horde of Ghengis Ackroyd.

They joined in battle at Brighouse
And tripe workers died under a hail of high explosive Yorkshire pudding,
It seemed all was lost
Then all of a sudding
They were face to face, Attila and his great foe.
It was a fight to the death that neither could avoid;
For two years they stood toe to toe,
Attila O'Hun and Ghengis Ackroyd.

Then Attila drew his black pudding
And slew Ghengis Ackroyd where he stood;
So perished the evil ruler of the Mohammedan Empire of Dewsbury,
So was spilt the Ackroyd blood.
The men of Levenshulme took their factory back,
Once more they were employed,
And the western world no longer stood in fear
Of the terrible horde of Ghengis Ackroyd.
The end