Nor do a bit nor stretch a rope, nor pad de hoof
And pound his ear beneat’ de sky, widout no roof
He needn’t pack no wicked gat.
Policemen’ll protect him.
If he forgets where home is at,
Kind Central’ll connect him.
L’Envoi
Dat pious pie-faced son of a gun,
He’s sittin’ pretty, maybe.
But ain’t he missed a lot of fun?