We leap in the Ford as the clock strikes eleven,
          Ye seldom will finds such a rare merry party.
The main guy myself, king pin of the seven,
          There's Willy and Tilly and Izzie McCarty.
Cute Ikie the baker,
Fat Micky the faker,
And Pat, the muckracker,
          The Tammany Squire.
          In garbage attire.

The car skips along with a villainous racket,
          We leap o'er the drawbridge, we cross the Styx River.
The car slips—poor flivver! The forecastle jacket
          Now bumps 'gainst an oak. Oh, see the Micks shiver.
The live wires quiver,
Whilst roasting each liver--
Poor Lizzie, tin flivver!
          We save the fat squire
          In garbage attire.

Behold the metallic Elizabeth sizzle!
          My brain is congested, my heart is on fire.
The joy ride is ended, the racket a fizzle.
          We stick in the mud, we have busted a tire,
And roasted a wire.
Poor flivver, poor flyer!
From out the mire,
          We rescue the squire,
          In garbage attire.

The hock-shop is empty since Lizzie departed,
          Whilst Ikie the baker no more makes us dizzy.
The hearse from the neighbouring village has carted
          Away the poor mangled cadaver. Poor Izzie
Is now very busy
In dodging that dizzy
Black devil, tin Lizzy,
          And cursing the squire
          In garbage attire.

The gloomy hyena howls in the arena
          With rage in his cage, quaintly sage, th' French briar,
I place 'twixt my lips whilst the bowl of farina
          Awaiting brings solace. The pitch pine, the pyre
Burns up the flyer,
That flivver. No guyer.
But vengenace entire.
          Burns up the black squire.
          In garbage attire.

Whenever I closeth my eyes in the twilight,
          I see the cadaver of Izzie the hocker,
Pray stop all palaver, attention, that sky bright
          The stately cadaver of Izzie, no mocker,
Thou bones of my sire,
          Cut out all enquire-
Ing talk, lest hot fire
          Consume the black Squire,
In garbage attire.

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