When we moved to this old farm, in this open country land,
there was always blowing wind, as a storm or as a breeze.
Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring, seemed a never ending blow,
Sometimes warm and sometimes cold, it often made us sneeze.
I don't care, 'cause I like wind, but my husband did not so
Hair reduced to minimum, wind blowing through his jacket
Pityfull he thought he was, when he had to go outside.
If the blowing took too long, he could arouse a racket
He had heard of felting wool, that would keep the wind outside,
So he bought a book to learn and he needed wool of sheep.
And his friend said "cool, oké, let's make the felt together,
I too would love a jacket, with pockets handsize deep.
And so they start one evening, with the carder I had bought,
Turns they took to swing that thing and the wool came out real nice.
Got dry throats from smoking, so they sipped some homemad wine,
Telling stories, laughing loud, often pushed the wool through twice.
Then the grand finale came, changing wool into the felt,
Soapsud used, scrubbing the board in warm water, very hot.
Layers crossing right and left, the texture shrinking tightly
Hairshaft should grab each other, but my God, they did not.
All that swinging useless, for they used wrong kind of wool,
That was in the book there too, but they hadn't read it all.
Wool be used from special sheep, that should do the trick alright,
So I won't repeat the words, they were shouting in the hall.
That is how I got my sheep, for having the right kind wool
But in twenty years gone by, they never swung the carder,
For they had their bellies full, of the jackets made of felt,
He's wearing special underwear, when the wind blows harder
And the wool they didn't use, well I've spun it into garn,
Knit some sweaters, soft and warm, wich they both refused to wear.
It seemed hard to overcome, the defeat they came accross
But I really miss those nights, turning carders, I do swear
