He's a strange type of love.
He will pull it over her eyes.
A wool commitment's what he's thinking of,
Since he left his hog-hugging home in the sties,
Where he had all of the piglets squealing.
He was often underham.

Never's gonna give ewes up
Never's gonna lech for hound
Never's gonna haunt the pound for a poodle
Never go back to the sty
Never says "in a pig's eye"
Lecher tries ovine kit and caboodle

He knows the lyrics to a song
About the making
Of lanolin-laced raiment
It's "Baa-Baa Black Sheep," and it isn't long.
It's about bags full of wool for payment.

And now he's got a lamb's dam bleating.
"Ovine, divine; kein Schwein for me!"

Never's gonna give ewes up
Never's gonna fetch for hound
Never's gonna haunt the pound for a poodle
Never go back to the sty
Never says "in a pig's eye"
Never gonna try kits and canoodle.

[protracted bleating, mixed with:
"Give ewe tup, give ewe shtup"]

Swine, ovine? The latter's more appealing
Than go whole hog, plunder ham.