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