Enter the forty-nine gates of uncleanliness
Said she, hoisting up her skirt
I held my breath against her fetidness
As I gazed upon the swinish flirt
I worked like a mule down in the pit
For seven long days and seven lonely nights
That makes one week exactly for those of you
Who lack the skills to add things up right
Born in this pig sty
In my new pants and shirt
But I leaned on the fence
And I fell in the dirt
Crank Mr. Peanut's handle said
The adle-brained coot with a toothless grin
I fled rather than let myself
To be bathed in the unforgivable sin
I ran straight home where I was met
By my mother with her skirt up over her head
Sometimes I wonder just why the hell
I ever bother to get out of bed
Born in this pig sty
In my new pants and shirt
But I leaned on the fence
And I fell in the dirt
Born in this pig sty
In my new pants and shirt
But I leaned on the fence
And I fell in the dirt