That the critters are munchin’ their fodder and
bedded and comf’table too.
These biskits are light as a feather, but, boy,
they’d be heavier’n lead
If I thought that my hosses was shiv’rin’, if I
thought that my cattle warn’t fed.
There’s men in the neighborhood ’round me who
pray som’w’at louder than me,
They wear better clothes, sir, on Sunday—chip
in for the heathen Chinee,