They say don’t go
on Wolverton Mountain
’less you’re lookin’ for a wife
’cause Clifton Clower’s
got a middle-aged daughter
he’ll say can be
your own for life.

No slender hips …
she’s meaty and brawny.
On Wolverton Mountain,
that’s sexy fare?
“Don’t care wha’cha heard,”
yells Clifton Clower,
“she ain’t mangy,
just misused Nair®.”

Swallowin’ cream tarts
beyond all countin’
by now has got her
porcine, pound-rife.
Size eighty pants is
her heine floutin’,
ol’ Missy Clowers’
waistbands know strife.

No slender hips …
she’s meaty not scrawny.
On Wolverton Mountain,
that’s sexy fare?
“Ain’t fair wha’cha heard,”
yells Clifton Clowers,
“sh’ ain’t ungainly,
jes’ not too spare.”

By growin’ up
on Wolverton Mountain,
eatin’ sloe-plums,
and downin’ dough
she just got wide.
Her backside's gotta
run at least one
ton a bun or so.

No slender hips …
Petite? That’s funny!
On Wolverton Mountain,
that’s sexy fare?
“Ain’t fair wha’cha heard,”
yells Clifton Clowers,
“’tain't germane she's
is shaped like a pear!”

I’d beware o’ that Clifton Clowers,
wouldn’t spend time up on that mountain
don’t wanna take no two-ton lover
don’t wanna marry Missy Clowers
ain’t gonna climb up on that mountain
don’t wanna take no two-ton lover …

[repeat last lines, fading]