In Fifty Four a dig was started by some bods from the other club,
In a shakehole by the roadside not so far from the Hunters Pub,
With occasional draughts of cider the diggers soon had piled a heap,
To the envy of the weegees and the puzzlement of the sheep.
Ain't a gonna dig this cave no longer, ain't a gonna dig this cave no more,
With it's stalagmites from the ceiling and it's stalagmites from the floor,
Ain't a gonna push this squeeze no longer, ain't a gonna bang this choke no more,
For our Tankards Hole is going and its going to beat them all
Well the entrance rift was narrow, so there wasn't much need to shore,
But further down it's ample, twenty feet by sixty four,
It was tedious to climb the pitches, with a rift and a gulf to jump,
So we've got an elevator from the first pitch to the sump.
(the final verse tempo is speeded up and sung loudly)
You can keep your Tratmans Temple and your Devil's Elbow too,
And your Mortons Pot with stemples and your Cutchberts entrance queue,
For our Tankards hole is going, going steadily down the dip,
Taking Swildons as a feeder and St. Cuthberts as a drip.