There's a fine boarding house on the shores of Torch Lake
Where four fucking larrups would sit on your plate,
And more fucking larrups was sure to be there,
And the rank butter you'd always hair,
Derry-di-oh-day. Whack for the di-oh-diddle-oh-day.

Oh our cook, she's the daughter of Honest John Clark.
One taste of her biscuits would make an ox fart.
Her puddings are tough and as green as the grass
And if you would taste'm, you'd hock off your ass,
Derry-di-oh-day. Whack for the di-oh-diddle-oh-day.

Oh there's Peter, Joe, William, there's Franfort and Knott.
And there's sweet little Mary with a wart on her twat.
There's Jumper our push, he's a good one too.
But the long-legged bastard, he shit in our shoes,
Derry-di-oh-day. Whack for the di-oh-diddle-oh-day.

Oh here's to Tad Mitten the son-of-a-bitch
May his bollox rot off with the seven year itch
His pecker will turn on the point of a screw
His asshole would whistle the red, white and blue
Derry-di-oh-day, Whack for the di-oh-diddle-oh-day.

An untitled song by an anonymous man. Recorded August 1938, St. James, Beaver Island, Michigan.


Listen here: https://digital.library.wisc.edu/1711.dl/PP5AXQKAMYY2M8N


Any help identifying the tune is appreciated.