Pity the man that stands on the doorstep,
Waiting for someone to answer the door that he hasn’t knocked.
His feet are cold,
His hands are numb,
But truth be told,
There’s worse to come.

Pity the man that sits in his armchair,
Not bothering to answer a door that has not been knocked.
His fire’s alight,
He drinks his wine,
He bids goodnight,
Before his time.

Pity the man who stole the door knocker.
And put it on his own door the thieving f*cker.