Mrs. Evans fach, you want butter again

Mrs. Evans fach, you want butter again.

How will you pay for it now, little woman

With your husband out on strike, and full

Of the fiery language? Ay, I know him,

His head is full of fire and brimstone

And a lot of palaver about communism,

And me, little Dan the Grocer

Depending so much on private enterprise.

What, depending on the miners and their

Money too? O yes, in a way, Mrs. Evans,

Come tomorrow, little woman, and I'll tell you then

What I have decided overnight.

Go home now and tell that rash red husband of yours

That your grocer cannot afford to go on strike

Or what would happen to the butter from Carmarthen?

Good day for now, Mrs. Evans fach.