I’m roasting sup that’s comfy,
Tasty stuff I did grow.
I’m growin’ stuff that’s comfy,
Rakin’ turf, wielding my hoe.
I’m roasting food (grub) placed
Just behind my oven door.

I’m growin’, I’m growin with spring water tastes like wine;
I’m roasting, I’m roasting with a lotta baste of wine,
I’ll get plump on this fodder; way grumped ere I dine.

I’m gonna eat these vittles, pack ’em all away,
I’m gonna eat these vittles, snack on ’em all day.
All this noshing and biting—fat is how I’m gonna stay.

Wow! Tasty snacks; I’m leaving junk food,
Gonna heave it all away
There’s no lack of fare for stowing in my stomach’s bay.
Sweet delight, eating—peas on my plate play,
But I won’t—BLAM!—shoot game to hack and filet,

No moose or goose gunning, them screaming and crying,
No moose or goose gunning, then cleaving and frying.
Crops, you gonna hoe ’em. It’s wrong to go and buy ’em.