Burly in the evenin’, strut-is-stout tuppin’ time,
down at the Horner house, Jack’s part would like to grind.
Jack's off in the corner, pryin’ to spring it up.
Willie swimmin’ like horned pout, then bloats up like a carp.

Poundin’-prong Horner’s soundin’ the beat.
Willie for some porkjoy is cravin’…
that his pickle find a seat.

Sister's mitt is washed, but she’s keeping it docile-style.
Miffed, he thumps his upped mace and solos for a while.
Porkboy bangs the rhythm, bound for galamouroux.
Willie goes for her crevasse; she snubs him: “No can do!”

Poudin’ John Horner’s drownin’ in heat
Willie for some porkjoy is cravin’…
lacks a nickel for a treat.

“You can't use your manhood yet; keep hangin’ down,
but if you've got a nickel, you can mosey in my mound.”
From Little Jack Horner comes a crashing noise.
Breaches piggy bank, dough’s out, he’s bought some shaggin’ joy.

Down where it's warmer, ’round from her seat,
willie of this pourboy is spraying
not a trickle; she's replete.

Pound on, Jack Horner…found him a treat.
Willie on this porkboy’s now snoring
till it springs for a repeat.