The leafy path of yesterday that took us to the woods,
Where at the gate of Pengelton, the orphans once stood.
In wondrous walks, where dreams came true, against the odds of time.
Now The Clowns of Pengelton, have gone to yesterday, and rhyme.
From Sawdust hill to Sandpit lane, the moon portrayed its yellows.
The glories of the heavens smiled, at our play, and on our pillows.
On Suffolk winds to Cornish tin, the tyrant Landlords screamed,
“Bring to us the Clowns of Pengelton, and their blood to live our dreams.”
Please take me on your leaf-mould path, to that ancient scrap yard sky,
Where the engines of the sandpit moaned, in toil, and children cry.
How strange it was, that in that misery, we found the secret way,
It’s now locked behind a tree trunk door, in the gone, gone, gone, of yesterday.