Brenda's Iron Sledge - Robyn Hitchcock, The Egyptians

We head downhill, my hands fly back

Our fingers freeze, our hair falls out, our hair falls out

Our fingers freeze, our hair falls out

The iron piston pumps and spouts

The steaming air as hot as sprouts

All aboard, Brenda’s iron sledge

No one’s on top, they’re comfortable

They’re sitting on a human chain, a human chain

They’re sitting on a human chain

Their limbs compressed in icy slush

Of freezing in a raw meat groove

All aboard, Brenda’s iron sledge

Please don’t call me Reg, it’s not my name

The body’s rear, a bucking sled

Which hits a tree and falls asleep, and falls asleep

Which hits a tree and that is that

The grasshoppers curl up and burst

And Brenda shovels on the wurst

All aboard, Brenda’s iron sledge

Please don’t call me Reg, it’s not my name