It was at the Lane Ends that I bumped into Keith Brierley

His little moustache was a-bristle with glee

And sang as he sank down his seventh pint of Boddingtons

‘Who’ll be a Stroller with Ennis and me’

Then fourteen more Strollers emerged from the woodwork

And the twelve on the floor rose up on one knee

With a chorus so fey that unwittingly I crossed myself

‘Who’ll be a Stroller with Ennis and me’

For when May it comes round a good Stroller starts to sniff the air

And feels strangely drawn to the Low Countries

For his instincts say it’s time to sup bollekes and sing again

‘Who’ll be a Stroller with Ennis and me’

So the kits were all stacked in the boot of the charabanc

The water-tanks were loaded with fresh G and T

And I sang as I changed a small fortune into francs (again!)

‘Who’ll be a Stroller with Ennis and me’