across to the Caucmogummac,
For the laws came up in the tote-team mail, and
we’ve got the new statoots,
And of all the things that was ever planned to
give us a gripe in the stomach,
The worst is the corker that t’runs us down for
a-wearin’ our old calked boots.
You can’t chank on to a hotel floor,
You’ve got to leave calked boots at the door.
They make ye peel your hucks in the street