| Born in the middle of the afternoon |
| In a horse-drawn wagon on the old A5 |
| The big twelve wheeler shook my bed |
| "You can't stop here," the p'liceman said |
| Chorus: |
| "You better get born in someplace else |
| So move along, get along, |
| Move along, get along, |
| Go! Move! Shift!" |
| Born in the tatie liftin' time |
| In an old bow tent near a tatie field |
| The farmer said, "The work's all done |
| It's time that you was movin' on" |
| Born on a common near a buildin' site |
| Where the ground is rutted with the trailer's wheels |
| The local people said to me, |
| "You'll lower the price of property" |
| Born at the back of a blackthorn hedge |
| When the white hoarfrost lay all around |
| No eastern kings came bearing gifts |
| Instead, the order came to shift |
| The winter sky was hung with stars |
| And one shone brighter than the rest |
| The wise men came so stern and strict |
| And brought the order to evict |
| Wagon, tent, or trailer born |
| Last year, last month, or in far off days |
| Born here or a thousand miles away |
| There's always men nearby who say |