In the year of our Lord 1903, in the meat packing plants off the shores of the sea
Stood a young man at his slaughter post a newby by his side 
He said grind it up and ship it out doesn’t matter what’s inside
With poison bread to kill the rats, an effective tool of trade 
Just grind ‘em down to sausage it’s not hard for a work day’s pay
Look busy boy [bad word] the derby coats 
He knows the plan to fool our land so we’re all in the same boat 
 [bad word]  [bad word] to the Jungle of the Midwest Sea

Miles and miles of these stock [bad word] wild, 
The biggest in this country it gives our city style
The world will never know the shape their food is in 
It’s not our fault we’re worth our salt it’s the rest of the world’s sin
There’s no law against our action, no law against neglect 
We’re doing well in business no matter the effect
We’re the butchers of this country we’re the workers in the mud 
We’re the slaughter house advisors, we’re the bleeders of the blood