in a butcher's yard of a mind
it goes Here my man I've got my this
and well you know I've got my that

nothing evermore can be refined
or I (him talking) shall have to take a piss
right into a cocky new cocked hat

you put it on (it was all beaver-lined)
and clutch a bunch of posies for your Miss
but when you tip it ah the man's a cat

grab him skin him swing him till purblind
sharpshooters make him roundly soundly hiss
put him in a bag and wield a bat

or take him home and bid him find
gray rodents with pink noses whilst you kiss
the lady sweet and that (he'll say) is that