Little poop

Don't leave the house my son
They only want to get at your books
They'll call your name in the city street and tear your heart apart

Don't wander into town
The men there, they have hands of hooks
They'll break your fiddle in the city street and tear your heart apart

Although I know your voice can reach the clouds
You've become too peacock-proud
They'll make you wish you never opened that fucking mouth of yours

Don't wonder of these things
And whether they are right or wrong
They'll stone you, there, in the city street
With voices raised in song

Singing, oooh, little coup