Listen, you jack-booted union-busting plutocrat scab, I am supposed to be the Flooziemeister! If you want to do it, go ahead, but I'll have the International Brotherhood and Sisterhood of Flooziemeisters (IBASOF) on you before you can say, "Taft-Hartley injunction!"

Goodbye, master, I must leave you,
Something tells me I must go,
For you know I can't deceive you,
Going wage is too darn low.
Yes, you say that you will lead me
If I chop that hardwood cord;
Do not to temptation lead me,
I'm not toiling for my board.

If I work for bread and lodging
While the sun is high and warm,
It would cause me sundry dodging
Through the winter's cold and storm.
I must have the all that's in it
In the labor that I sell;
For you cannot tell what minute
It may start to rain like hell.

One more question, boss, one only --
As you count your wealth untold,
Would you have me save bologna
'Gainst the day when I am old ?
Now we understand each other,
(As we play the game of grab)
But, please do recall, "my brother",
I'm too old to be a scab.