When I was a little girl of nine, my aunt taught the song to me this way on a long ride to the Outer Banks.

While the organ peeled potatoes, lard was rendered by the choir.
While the sexton rang the dishrag, someone set the church on fire.
"Holy Smoke!" the preacher shouted. In the rush he lost his hair.
Now his head resembles heaven, for there is no parting there. (No parting there.)

In the boarding house where I lived, everything was growing old.
Long gray hairs were in the butter and the bread was full of mold.
When the dog died, we had sausage; when the cat died, catnip tea.
When the landlord died, I left there. Spare ribs were too much for me! (Too much for me!)

If you're born to be a lemon, you can never be a peach.
It is quite against your nature and it's far beyond your reach.
There's a law of compensation which to you I'll gladly teach.
You can always squeeze a lemon, but you cannot squeeze a peach. (So be a lemon!)