Is there anything mare tragic than a hedgehog lyin’ deed
on a motorway hard-shoulder in the lofty Lennox Hills,
with its innerds a’ a-gushin’ and a half dismembered heed,
and a gooey load o’ stomach lyin’ squashed aroond the gills?

’Twas an hour ago the juggernaut with heavy, heavy wheels,
on its journey doon from Airdrie on the way tae Motherwell,
came a-trundlin’ over squirrels, disregardin’ a’ the squeals
while the hedgehogs made a bloody mess that’s hard for me tae tell;

but the driver o’ that juggernaut, a man called Bobby Reed,
couldny care a tinker’s cuss for a’ the carnage he had made,
no he niver gave a toss for little hedgehog’s dyin’ breed
and he trundled on tae Motherwell in order tae get paid;

and the animals he slaughtered have their livers hangin’ oot
on a motorway hard-shoulder where the Clyde goes underneath,
but on that road in heaven where their spirits run aboot,
ye can bet they’re crunchin’ lorry drivers in between their teeth.