Doin’ woolen garments on my loom;
fleecin’ flocks of sheep while they are groomed.

I’m gonna make myself a hefty sweater
to keep me dry when the weather gets wetter.
A little chafe won’t bother me after I’m
loomin’—in and out the shuttle shoots.
Boomin’ is the noise; the loom ain’t mute.

The warp and weft have become friends to me.
I’m spinning yarns, but I don’t mean stories.
If sweater’s nappy, a pill-puller beats ’em.

Groovin’ as I shuttle on my loom,
feeling that I’ll finish pretty soon,
oh so, so soon.

I’ll keep on weftin’ and warpin’ all day.
And when it ends, to a bar I’ll sashay…
buy a bottle of booze to take away.
Rye’s sounding best to me; wife, don’t wrest it from me!

Boozin’s when I’m loomin’, singin’ tunes.
Drinkin’ too much…lose digits in loom.
Woe, woe, woe, woe.

Loomin’:
thumb, finger stumps.
Losin’….