Don't leave the house my son   They only want to get at your books   They'll call your name in the city street and tear your heart apart      Don't wander into town   The men there, they have hands of hooks   They'll break your fiddle in the city street and tear your heart apart      Although I know your voice can reach the clouds   You've become too peacock-proud   They'll make you wish you never opened that fucking mouth of yours      Don't wonder of these things   And whether they are right or wrong   They'll stone you, there, in the city street   With voices raised in song      Singing, oooh, little coup