The Merchant of Misery — that’s his name! His mansion stands on Thornhill’s height with forty rooms and not one light. He dines on pheasant, drinks the best, and weeps into his velvet vest.
He raised the rents on Cobbler’s Row! Threw widows out into the snow! He’d sell his mother for a coin — no woman would have him!
But we’ve got what his gold can’t buy: friends to raise a pint tonight, a fire warm, a family near. Things that miser’ll never hear.
A raucous tavern anthem of defiant pride. He climbed so high he can’t come down — and oh, how hard they fall. Hey! Hey! Hey!