Wash up your face, [bad word] up your head;
Now get ready for your coffee and bread.

It's hard times in the Wise county jail;
It's hard times I know

If s a piece of cold meat and cold corn bread;
It's so cold it's heavy as lead

It's hard times . . .

We're in jail and it's [bad word] 
About one-half enough to eat,

It's hard times . . .

It almost makes my stomache ache;
When they bring the potatoes on the old tin plate,

It's hard times . . .

We're in jail and it is so nice;
Among the dirt and body lice,

It's hard times . . .

The Wise county jail's no jail at all;
The chinches and bugs are walking the wall,

It's hard times . . .

It almost brings me to my knees;
When I hear that jailer ring them keys;

It's hard times . . .

I wrote to my mother to send me a knife,
The lice and the chinches have threatened my life.

It's hard times . . .

The police 'round here are a dirty old crew;
They will arrest a poor man and look him plumb through;
His pockets they'll pick, his clothes they'll sell;
For twenty-five cents they'd send him to [bad word] 

It's hard times . . .

(Originally by Dock Boggs)