Heating oil for the last supper

Outta oil, our tank ran empty
through the coldest winter in a century;
snow’s about and a shortage of oil,
t’wagons can’t get through at all!

I had to sweet-talk Mr Bigshot,
told ‘im tank were empty, we were out,
and only when he heard my missus hullabaloo
did he say he’d ‘see what he could do’.

Next day, there t’was – a big lorry
and he half-filled our tank, bless his trousers,
though yet there’s no spark, there’s no heat here.

But, when I crack the tightest nut in all of history,
the oil bleeds a tear, has a weep, flames away
and our hands warm together – blessed be.