Where the butchers have such a plenty of hogs
That they don’t make sausages out of dogs.
Not there, not there, my child!
Or is it where they fortunes make,
Where they’ve got a tunnel under the lake,
Where the stores are full of wheat and corn
And divorces are plenty as sure as you’re born,
Where Long John Wentworth is right on hand—
Is it there, dear father, that Western land?
Not there, not there, my child.