Lyrics

Jonathan Scroutch, a wifeless man,
Had lived a life of ease;
Rocking his chair from dawn to dark,
He did as well he pleased.

He grew fat and his beard grew long,
His frame of mind grew worse;
For sitting in his chair all day,
He’d groan, “The world’s a curse.”

He’d spit into his spittle jar,
Another chaw he’d chew,
And wipe the froth from off his lips,
And think a curse anew.

“Dad blasted, Jove, the day’s too long,
There’s less and less to do”;
Yet had he known the days grew short. . .
His words had not rung true.

Jonathan Scroutch, a wifeless man,
Had lived a life of ease;
Now buried six feet under ground
He groans and starts to wheeze.

“It’s gollderned cramped inside this box,
I wish I had my chair”;
And sticking more tobacco in,
He chews and spits and swears.