He eat de shwinepeefe, shpeek, un slough, un efery kind of meat,
Un I shvear mit mine goot grashus, pon top de people, so much as a barrel of sourcrout, un two puchels of lager bier, efery morning he would eat!
He vas a fine old Dietchen shentlemen von of the pestest kind.
By de fireshtove in his bier saloon efery morning he uoold shtand,
Mit a bottle of schnapps down by his side, un a glass up in his hand,
Un by himself he trinks dis toast, “Ich lieben die Vaderland,”
Un midout you could Dietsche vershter, for he vold nix Inglish gasprochen ven he’d say, “Spechlebecks von-grossen-dunder un blitzen nut-de-swimegrahdle skipoupens-die-dobbleshm,” you couldn’t nix undershtand.
Dis fine old Dietchen shentleman, von of de goot olt kind.
His nose vas red ash a beetle, yaw, by dunder, dat ish drue,
His mouth pout fourdeen inches wide, his eyes vere black ash plue.