Whatever my lot , To every woman who’s father got
Hits from crooks outside whose gun I shot
In a children’s song, or forget me not
In a children’s song, my mother’s far gone
Flown from my father’s bed, he’ll hate me instead
Though I have this gun, I still feel too young
As to hurt anyone, even after they’re dead
And when I wake up, then ask “Is it over?”
Turn over, and tell me you’re fed...
Up with all my father said up with the hammer he gave me to build your bed
In a sweet song, mother hello (x2)