He was known as the Portly Gidge, he lived alone on the hill.
The hopes of all were that he'd soonly die, or at least get very ill.
They hated him, and reviled his house. His name they spoke as vile,
They cursed his cat and cursed his cow - and cursed his wooden style.
They say that he ate their children,
One said he embalmed his ass.
They say that their mothers are smitten
With madness and all day eat grass.
They say that they see him playing
With wooden toys and ropes.
They say that they've heard him saying
That his god will destroy their hopes.
They say that he lives in darkness,
They say that his house has no light.
They say that the Devil's his harness,
To glow through the windows as night.
But hiding the sound of the gentle hush -
And the whistle of the hilltop breeze,
No hurry, no worry, no haste and no rush,
The Slipsong bring strength to his knees.
Alone on the wooden floor he sits,
Again the candle alight, aglow.
But no satanic presence or devilish fits
Seize him, but a presence of the Slipsong's show.
The Slipsong gives his worries a voice,
The Slipsong lifts his head.
Ths Slipsong gives his heart no choice
But to beat as his worries he'll shed.
They say that he ate their wood.
And their stories make children cry.
But the day that they cease to believe in him (and they could)
Will be the day that the Slipsong let's him die.