He doesn't sing, he doesn't dance, he has no recreation
That doesn't sap his scanty brains or sear his reputation,
In short,—for him, his antics and his never-ceasin' "rippin',"
There's just one cure would answer, and that's whippin', whippin', whippin'.
Oh! Whippin', whippin', I'd like to set him skippin',
To end his bets and cigarettes and stop his kümmel-nippin',
With cure in kind his flabby mind to put a little grip in,
To brisk his walk and sense his talk with whippin', whippin', whippin'!