Weasel-skin Patrick powered his habitus
Shot out a shoulder for a greet of, `I am!'
We were just watchers with our own command,
We were killing bold us while his strongness,
    Cut him hung low, cut him him to slow, cut him to foe.

Weasel-skin Patrick weathered his forehead
Leaned on his hang-ups, with the plea understand.
We send a foot down from our distant sand
We saw the the flick-flack whilst his weakening strong
    Cut him hung low, cut him him to slow, cut him to foe.

The weasel of Patrick died in the `O no!'
Took back his shoulders, had a seed from our plant.
We were just watchers drank up the waters
Whilst Patrick forgot and got on a job
    Cut him hung low, cut him to slow, cut him to Joe.

And now there's a wandering around in his gardens:
The garlic, the onion, the rabbit, the fox.
We were all gone then living it on now
Whilst Patrick forgot in his coffin of `How?'
    Cut him hung low, cut him to slow, cut him o no!