Wenceslas Parker looked out,
At Half-time of the Spurs game,
Wet and rainy all about,
Wind speed nearly hurr’cane.
Parker thanked his lucky stars,
Twas’ Boxing day in Leicester,
Work was closed, but not the bars,
Doctor Who and Grantchester.

When a poor man did alight,
From the Number 20,
Clothes a mess, a proper sight,
Scars on him aplenty.
Duck, where did that bloke come from?
Looks rougher than our Vardy,
E’s got no hat, his coat’s undone,
Lad must be feeling mardy.

Babe, he’s one of them refugees,
Comes all the way from Syria,
Seen him betting on the gees,
near Gilly’s cafeteria.
Parker cast aside the Sun,
Perched upon his noggin,
Duck, please put the kettle on,
fetch me my toboggan.

Sledding? You are having a laugh,
We’ve got no pot to piss in.
But bring the chap into our gaff,
Give him food and television.
So the Parkers greeted him,
Greeted him with banter,
Filled the glasses to the brim,
Emptied each decanter.

The home it came alive with mirth,
As they talked most pleasant.
That night there was some peace on earth,
There on Rancliffe Crescent.
Therefore, English folk be sure,
Though thou’d not be royal,
Anywhere you bless the poor
Is King Arthur’s soil.

Good King Wenceslas looked out
On the Feast of Stephen
When the snow lay round about
Deep and crisp and even
Brightly shone the moon that night
Though the frost was cruel
When a poor man came in sight
Gathering winter fuel

Hither, page, and stand by me,
If thou knowst it, telling
Yonder peasant, who is he?
Where and what his dwelling?
Sire, he lives a good league hence,
Underneath the mountain
Right against the forest fence
By Saint Agnes fountain.

Bring me flesh and bring me wine
Bring me pine logs hither
Thou and I shall see him dine
When we bear them thither.
Page and monarch, forth they went
Forth they went together
Through the rude winds wild lament
And the bitter weather

Sire, the night is darker now
And the wind blows stronger
Fails my heart, I know not how
I can go no longer.
Mark my footsteps, good my page
Tread thou in them boldly
Thou shall find the winters rage
Freeze thy blood less coldly.

In his masters step he trod
Where the snow lay dinted
Heat was in the very sod
Which the Saint had printed
Therefore, Christian men, be sure
Wealth or rank possessing
Ye, who now will bless the poor
Shall yourselves find blessing.