They once rode out, for the fox hunting, Quorn
Over the hedges and fields, with passengers borne
But the old, the unfit, the weary and the lame
They'd all be butchered, down Flesh Hovel Lane
Spent, they were knackered and given no quarter
Led down the lane and sent to their slaughter
It's a gruesome story and it's a terrible tale to tell
For the hounds of the hunt, were always fed well
The butchery's long lost in the macabreness of yore
And the abattoir's gone, by Pillings Lock on the Soar
But it's still a dead end, still narrow, once rutted
It's Flesh Hovel Lane, where horses, were gutted
