Following is a version printed in The Menasha Record (Wisconsin) on November 20th, 1909, p. 1 (link). Stanzas added in 4 line intervals for readability.

The following pesky conglomoration [sic] of nothingness was written by the great grand-father of Herr Nighthawk's grandfather and recently appeared in an exchange:

I was born in Cincinnati, up in Iceland near the south,
And that's the very reason that my voice is in my mouth:
"Twas a hot and frosty morning; yes, quite windy I believe.
The great big trees were making bows, for they were going to leave.

If a rooster could but carry the hod, a hen could lay a brick;
There are cripples dying nowadays because they cannot kick.
So I went to sleep in the river just because it had a bed,
And I took a sheet of water to cover up my head.

I will ne'er forget the schoolmaster who gave me many a rap:
If he should try to do it now he'd not be on the map.
For the oyster plant was cooking 'longside the buttercup,
And the cabbage got so far ahead, the tomatoes couldn't catch up.

Oh, my uncle owned a great big steer, its size was quite immense.
He stuck his horns into my back and threw me o'er the fence:
He chased me here, he chased me there, chased me to Washington.
And there I got a pension for the battle of Bull Run.

My father owned a great big store house; owned it in his mind
He put a shutter on the roof and did it for a blind.
A girl laid down by a sewer, and by that sewer she died.
And at the coroner's inquest they said it was sewer-side.

Oh the crows were making crowbars and the bells were ringing wet.
And the chambermaids were making beds to do them, up, you bot.
Oh the pigs were making pigstys and the grass was making hay,
And the bumble bees were making bums for Ta-ra-ra-bum-de-ay.