Five were the grown men. All in a line. A doctor, a lawyer. An officer fine. A calloused mechanic. A thief of the den. All in a line. Were the five grown men.
A lawman, a foreman. A scribbler of wills. A picker of pockets. A curer of chills. Each had their profession. Cut down to an art. But only one had my best interests. At heart.
But who, my friends, oh who?
It's not the one who'd satisfaction. Draw from my most foul infraction. Firing fees which scarce abate. My friends, it's not the advocate
It isn't he who lives in hope that all my inners fail to cope. With every stress my life withstood. My friends, it's not the doctor good.
And it's not he whose heart's desire's. That I'd be a crook, a liar. Fit to swing from Gallows Hill My friends, it's not the constable.
It's not the one who's daily bread. Is drawn from cracks and engines dead. With my old wreck his master plan. My friends, it's not the garage man.
The only one who'd wish me health, prosperity, and untold wealth. Success until my last relief. My friends, 'tis he - the common thief!
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