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Fred says there is money in Ken to be made,
He goes without snowshoes, he works like a slave;
Oh, the squirrels they are aplenty, the bills they roll in,
Poor Jack Keefe he lost them and Thevent best him.
Well, it's into my bunk I often sing this,
Wishing that Douglas could listen to this;
For old chummy Douglas who's always forking,
Went up the Grand River, he did the wrong thing.
There's a good many trappers below us on Ken,
There's Mark and there's Gus and there's Wallace walked in;
His nerves are so weak that he can't stay alone,
So he packed up his gamebag and he's on his way home.
Dan White he hunts on the branch, never fails,
And there every round on his snowshoes he sails;
He carries the mail for us fellows in Ken,
And all kinds of good things on his trips out and in.
There's jolly ol' Henry, the truth I will tell,
In rhyming this song, boy, I think you done well;
You're one of the first to set up in Old Ken,
And always the last to strike up in the spring.
There's a good many trappers above us on Ken,
There's Douglas and Philip and Bob's in between;
And just above Philip in the narrows of Ken,
There's Indians and Uncle and Robert Michelin.
