Of forty-seven desert hens
A-chewin’ peanut shucks.
There everybody’s standin’ sad
Beside the Fishhill store,
A-sweatin’ dust an’ spittin’ rust
Because there ain’t no more.
The constable, they write, has went
A week without a pinch.
There ain’t no jobs, so there’s a gent
’At sure has got a cinch.