Hard times of 19 and 33, lady, have mercy on poor, poor me.
Camping since June by the railroad track, my little bit of nothing in this little tote sack.
Boiled all the leather off this old pair of shoes, lately just surviving on dandelion soup.
I'm empty as a church late Saturday night, Jesus won't forget if you spare me a bite.

I'm a veteran of the Great World War, dug a bunch of trenches up in Baltimore.
They gave me lots of medals there toward the end for liberating Paris from the wild Injuns.
But every day is now nip and tuck for the poor war hero down on his luck.
You look a little doubtful, but if I don't get a mouthful, I'll die right here on your welcome mat.

You can have some catfish, you can have some cole slaw,
You can have some grits, a glass of iced tea,
You can have a hush puppy, you can have two,
And maybe after supper, Baby, I can have you.

Lord, what a wonderful circumstance, a catfish dinner here at my last chance.
And multiply the miracle, I do confess, providing me dessert in a gingham dress.
Lady, open up and let the feast begin, and after supper, Baby, we gonna feast again.
Tonight you'll swear that you're queen for a day and pray the little lover boy never goes away.

I ain't your typical hoboing vulture, got me refinement and lots of culture.
I'm a college man and would have you know I often watch Shakespeare on the radio.
Used to be a banker up in New York town till Madison Avenue come tumbling down.
Had more money than I could fold, and the teeth here that's missing, they was solid gold.

You can have. . . .

I don't believe a single word you say, you're just a bum riding blinds on the Santa Fe.
You talk like a cracker and smell flat evil, probably bout as useful as a bad boll weevil.
Good at stealing chickens off of poor people's farms, good at doing gin bottles grievous harm.
But I'm just a woman, cold and alone, could use a man at night to keep my belly warm.

(Additional verse, not on recorded version)
So go to the pump; wash your face and hands while I start supper in the frying pan.
In fact, Romeo, you dosey doe to the spring. A real Casanova washes everything.
I'll fetch you soap and a good steel comb, try to wear em out before you come in my home.
And please, Mr. Hero, you would do right nice to declare a big war on that head full of lice.

You can have. . . .

I'm a poor widow stuck on the edge of a pond, nothing here but catfish to feed upon.
I'm turning blue and gray, growing whiskers on my chin, and eating so much catfish has driven me to sin.
Some say it's gamy, it's stringy and tough, but you can tame any meat if you boil it enough.
Get a kettle full of water and when it's nice and hot, chop the hobo up and throw him in the pot.

Never cook the liver cause it's done been pickled, never save the feet if you're the least bit fickle. Cracklings are good though perhaps a little hairy, for marrow bone soup try to add a little sherry
The lungs have done been smoked, just hang em up to dry, ain't a lot of brains but they good when they fried.
Sausages, and fricassees, and savory stews, you'll be feeding off the hobo for a month or two.

If you say, "You can have. . . .