Оригинален текст
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 doesnt matter whats inside
With poison bread to kill the rats, an effective tool of trade
Just grind em down to sausage its not hard for a work days pay
Look busy boy here come the derby coats
He knows the plan to fool our land so were all in the same boat
Chorus
Welcome to the Jungle of the Midwest Sea (4x)
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
Its not our fault were worth our salt its the rest of the worlds sin
Theres no law against our action, no law against neglect
Were doing well in business no matter the effect
Were the butchers of this country were the workers in the mud
Were the slaughter house advisors, were the bleeders of the blood