An’ drunk three cups o’ coffee ’thout a sigh
(Ye never know it’s chic’ry, an’ ye never need ter know),
Then, by the Great Lord Harry, comes the pie!
Two kinds at Laury’s allers, an’ a hunk o’ cheese with it,
An’ top it off with do’nuts, milk, an’ cake;
Bill passes yew a teethpick, yew settle back a bit,
An’ reely think yew’re gittin’ wide awake.
Wal, ye need thet kind o’ fuel, ’cos farm work’s tur’bel grillin’,
On freezy days or in a b’ilin’ heat;
It ain’t farm life or workin’, ez mos’ fokes thinks, is killin’—