It's not so much the distance nor the time it takes

It's not even the cold nor the pains or aches

I can cope with blisters and the weight of my pack

And I don't mind the rain if I've got my mac

But have I cursed Wainwright in my time

To be fair, he said it's all muck and slime

The creeping sludge, the never-ending peat

It were that that nearly finished me, it nearly had me beat

Peat bogs, peat bogs, more peat bogs

You'd never credit it--they burn the stuff instead of logs

Peat bogs, peat bogs, more peat bogs

Well it's such a funny stuff is peat, it's nature's own glue

It got to me, it did, and by the end of day, too

I thought, I'm only carrying on so that I can say

If I've done nothing else, I've walked the Penine way

But I did it seven years ago, so why do it again?

Well I don't really know, and I didn't know then

Unless it's this that's been nagging at my noggin

Peat bogs and me have got this love/hate thing

Peat bogs, peat bogs, more peat bogs

You'd never credit it--they burn the stuff instead of logs

Peat bogs, peat bogs, more peat bogs