In the heart of green hills past the misty vapor rising off the marshlands.
In a place never fully hit by the sun.
In the depths of a castle.
In a dark dungeon.
In a hole.
In the ground.

Lived young Alistair Campbell of Lochalsh.
Who preferred the dark anyway.

He was sold as a lad to a nobleman,
for wee bitty price of a sum
And he turned that ‘ole in the ground to a party scene
For all of the ravers to come

They line up street 1 with the glowsticks,
because street 2 just didn’t exist
And despite it bein 1250
He found a turn-table an mixed

He took bagpipes, and church bells, and cannons
And layed them all out on the track,
And the party was going quite splendid
Until the door opened a crack

In with that weasel O’Brien
The son of a druid and wench
Brought in his own table and headphones
And set his mixer out on the bench

At first they began with some Beowulf
Giving the Spear-Danes an 808 beat.
With a hype of the bass, and a click track
Even the high class were tappin their feet

But soon they had moved to the Dream of the Rood
And O’Brien, he worked up the nerve
To freestyle the dream, and boy was he mean
He stayed in his lane with no swerve

Not to be daunted was Campbell,
Who still had a trick up his sleeve,
He took out a track still hot from the lab,
And made all the haters believe

High creator, Ancient
Of Days, and unbegotten began
Young Alistair Campbell of Lochalsh
With Altus Prosator, in hand

He took that 16 and then some
Right into the history books
O’Brien relapsed, and almost collapsed,
But then he came in on the hook

O’Brien and Campbell of Lochalsh,
Now the group OBC,
All because of the battle in Scotland
In 1250 AD