I put naught in the bank’s slot;
In the bank for me, there’s naught;
There’s no dough that I can stow into my pot,
There is nothing in that building for me.
Too bad affluence is not
My neighbor; her poor relation—poverty is,
Poverty is.

I ain’t got any money,
I ain’t got any money,
I’m an indigent mendicant.

So the bank is my buddy—Not!
So the bank holds my money—Not!
Because in there for me, no currency that was wrought—
Not that with which things are bought for me
My affluence has been shot.

I’ll rob the bank so I’ve got,
I’ll rob the bank so I’ve got
Some of the bucks that’s stuffed through the deposit slot
And then there will be some money for me. . .

It’s the penitentiary,
It is then the penitentiary for me,
The pen for me,
Slammer for me.

In there to rot,
In there I’ll rot.