The pig-pen has gone to decay, John Jones,
The lightning the tree overcome,
And down where the onions and carrots once grew,
Grows thistles as big as your thumb.
There is a change in the things I love, John Jones,
They have changed from the good to the bad,
And I feel in my stomach, to tell the truth,
I’d like to go home to my dad.
Twelve months, twenty has pass’d, John Jones,
Since I knock’d off your nose with a rail,