Captains, in your towers, how many
Human beings ring, if any?
"We're six", you say, or, "eight", or "ten".
You may be wrong; survey your men.
Within that close knit band of brothers
A few may be unlike the others.
So pay attention to these lines
And learn to recognise the signs.
Their brains are clear, their eyes are bright
Oh, they're intelligent alright.
At opening time they're down there first
(They're permanently crazed with thirst).
They don't mix much with other folks,
They have a score of private jokes
That no one else can understand.
If you've got grabbers in your band
On Sunday evenings no one's there
They all go ringing peals elsewhere.
Apologise, as well they might,
They come in hoards on practice night.
They've looked up "Lincolnshire" no doubt
And learn their "Glasgow"sitting out.
A grabber never simply rings -
They do the most peculiar things.
They blow their noses, air their views
They scratch their heads and lace their shoes
And casually remove their ties
When ringing peals of "Spliced Surprise".
The way they spend their Saturdays
Just never ceases to amaze -
They drive themselves to distant towers
And ring the bells for hours and hours.
They drink the pubs dry, then
Quite soberly drive home again.
I fear the wrath that this unleashes
But boy, are they a crazy species!