My three bloodhounds were snuffing my land and told me what they found.
They told about your hoofprints round my stalks, they got me cross.
They told about your knuckled imprints on the bank of my farm-games drink.
So I sent out my three bloodhounds; theys [bad word] to hunt you down.
Their technique puts Choctaws and Chickasaws to leaf-eating shame.
You won't know they're round till a wet nose is huffing in your ear,
and a mouthful of canine is wrapped round your ankle, like the iron you sposed to wear,
and when the female blood has pinned your chest she'll howl to let me know your found.

~Lo~

My three bloodhounds returned, and you they did not found.
They had three bloody noses, three slouched backs, three tails between their legs.
That got me cross so I sent to Europe for two good shepherd stock,
they arrived with attitude, lazed all day, rolled their eyes when I tried to send them out.
They lifted their legs on my fence posts so I had to put them shepherds down,
I used their leg-bones for new fence posts, when from your hide I heard you howl.

~Lo~

I've got one hope left, it's in the south,
souther than what you know about.
It hunt Aztecs and Incas, Sundance and Butch,
and Germans that skipped town.
My Fila Brasilia will snack on my bloodhounds then use the posts to clean out it's mouth.
My Fila Brasilia will stalk through my food crops, [bad word] to hunt you down.
My Fila Brasilia will walk in the tree tops, and on you fall down.
My Fila Brasilia will burrow the earth's rock, he will root you out.
My Fila Brasilia will walk on the water, my beast will not drown.
My Fila Brasilia will stand on the mountain, all will hear him howl.