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Score of the Mendip Musicians song
This was the last song I can remember being written before the singing began to decline at the Hunters. Alfie and others did write more songs for caving dinners and hut openings but they were sung once and there were no singers left to learn them and sing them regularly. Screech is Mendip slang for rough cider which aproximates to the sound it makes when it fails to stay in your stomach!

The weegies often wonder, why cavers go below,
And creep about by flickering carbide flame,
That there's a valid reason, this little song will show,
Why people play this energetic game,
It started when some caver who had nothing else to do,
Sat down and wrote a caving song while finishing his stew,
Now, cavers have to work like hell to make these songs come true,
And the Mendip musicians are to blame!

The Wessex dug out Tankards, so Bob could write his song,
The B.E.C. dug Cuthberts (which was worse!).
Blokes push all over Swildons to help Olly's songs along,
Or sit for hours to write an extra verse.
So, when you come to think of it, it seems an awful pity,
That blokes should have to sweat away, and get all wet and gritty,
Just so some ruddy twit can write some crafty caving ditty,
The Mendip musicians are a curse.

You don't think cavers all drink beer because they like the taste?
They do it 'cos they must. You understand?
The way they have to knock it back's a ruddy awful waste,
'cos everyone must finish three parts canned.
If caving blokes were left alone to do some ruddy choosing,
You'd find them drinking coffee, and beer and screech refusing,
But everyone drinks beer so bods can write about their boozing,
The Mendip musicians should be banned.

Some optimistic people think there will come a time,
When every cave musicians twisted brain,
Has used up all the words which he can get to bloody rhyme,
And peace will come, and no one will complain.
But, when this happy state looks like it's coming to fruition,
And months go by, and no one tries to write a composition,
Some idiotic club will hold a singing competition,
And the Mendip musicians win again.

So, when you're in the Hunters, all peaceful and serene,
A pleasant quiet evening to spend.
You get a nasty feeling as you gaze around the scene,
That things will not turn out as you intend.
Because you know, eventually, when blokes get three parts tight,
They'll crowd the bloody place out, and sing with all their might,
In several different keys at once, for half the flaming night,
The Mendip musicians are the end!
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