In the year of our Lord 1903, in the meat packing plants off the shores of the sea Stood a young man at his slaughter post a Newby by his side He said grind it up and ship it out doesn't matter what's inside With poison bread to kill the rats, an effective tool of trade Just grind 'em down to sausage it's not hard for a work day's pay Look busy boy here come the Derby coats He knows the plan to fool our land so we're all in the same boat
Welcome to the Jungle of the Midwest Sea
Miles and miles of these stock yards run wild The biggest in this country it gives our city style The world will never know the shape their food is in It's not our fault we're worth our salt it's the rest of the world's sin There's no law against our action, no law against neglect We're doing well in business no matter the effect We're the butchers of this country we're the workers in the mud We're the slaughter house advisors, we're the bleeders of the blood
