In the year of our Lord 1903, in the meat packing plants off the shores of the seanStood a young man at his slaughter post a newby by his side nHe said grind it up and ship it out doesn’t matter what’s insidenWith poison bread to kill the rats, an effective tool of trade nJust grind ‘em down to sausage it’s not hard for a work day’s paynLook busy boy here come the derby coats nHe knows the plan to fool our land so we’re all in the same boat nnWelcome to the Jungle of the Midwest Sea nWelcome to the Jungle of the Midwest Sea nWelcome to the Jungle of the Midwest Sea nWelcome to the Jungle of the Midwest Sea nnMiles and miles of these stock yards run wild, nThe biggest in this country it gives our city stylenThe world will never know the shape their food is in nIt’s not our fault we’re worth our salt it’s the rest of the world’s sinnThere’s no law against our action, no law against neglect nWe’re doing well in business no matter the effectnWe’re the butchers of this country we’re the workers in the mud nWe’re the slaughter house advisors, we’re the bleeders of the blood