In a house at the end of a long, bumpy lane
(in the background the sound of a REAL steam-train)
up a path made of bricks, with a mossy-type smell
and up to the door with the ye olde bell.
Creep in past the aga, the pots and the pans,
past the fire in the lounge and the old hat-stand
that sits in the hall by shoes in odd pairs
'til you find yourself at the top of some stairs
that are stoney and cold, that lead down to a room,
a basement, in fact, and there in the gloom
sits a girl surrounded in musical fog
and that, mister children, is anna log.