Depends on your accent, I suppose. I pronounce those two words exactly the same, as, I suspect, do most Americans.
One Anonymous version (from Richard Lederer’s The Cunning Linguist: Ribald Riddles and Lecherous Limericks)
This is the story of the bee
Whose sex is very hard to see.
You cannot tell a he from she,
But he can tell, and so can she.
The little bee is never still,
So has no time to take the pill-
And that is why in times like these
There are so many sons of bees.
Your Dad obviously edited it for his audience.
The other one’s a version of Three Jolly Sportsmen, an old English Ballad.
This is the version from the Mudcat Cafe:
THREE JOLLY SPORTSMEN
- It’s of three jolly sportsmen went out to hunt the fox,
But where will we find him, amongst the hills and rocks?
CHORUS: With me hip, hip, hip and me halloa
And away went the merry, merry band,
To me ran-tan-tan, to me chivvy, chivvy, chan,
All over the merry, merry strand.
Ugle, ugle, ugle went the bugle horn,
Fol-de-rol, fol-de-rol, fol-de-riddle-day,
And through the woods we’ll go, brave boys,
And through the woods we’ll go.
-
Well, the first we met was a fair maid, a-combing out her locks,
She swore she saw Bold Reynolds amongst the farmer’s ducks. -
The next we met was a farmer, a-plowing of his land,
He swore he saw Bold Reynolds amongst the ewes and lambs. -
And the next we met was a miller, a-working of his mill,
He swore he saw Bold Reynolds run over yonder hill. -
The next we met was a blind man, as blind as blind could be,
He swore he saw Bold Reynolds run up a hollow tree. -
And the next we met was a parson, and he was dressed in black
He swore he saw Bold Reynolds upon the huntsman’s back.
I’ve always heard a longer version:
On top of spaghetti
All covered with cheese
I lost my poor meatball
When somebody sneezed
It rolled off the table
And onto the floor
And then my poor meatball
Rolled right out the door
It rolled 'cross the garden
And under a bush
And now my poor meatball
is nothing but mush
Don’t forget Round John Virgin…
From the OP’s song,…
[quote=“dougie_monty, post:1, topic:660751”]
My dad would sing a couple of songs with questionable lyrics on monthly drives to visit grandparents, after we were out of the city’s radio range. Buy then, I was presumably asleep in the back seat, and he wouldn’t get very far before mom would tell him to hush:
Good morning Mister Zip Zip Zip
.
.
.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust
*If it wasn’t for your a**hole your belly would bust
*
Then there might be a brief:
I got a girl in Kansas City
She’s got a gumboil on her t****
Probably my giggling gave me away, and mom would make him stop.
Counter to dad’s type of song, I recall mom singing
I’m a lonely little petunia in an onion patch,
an onion patch, an onion patch.
I’m a lonely little petunia in an onion patch
I cry and cry all day
(This has come to mind in a few previous jobs)
My mom used to sing that too! Haven’t thought of that in years. 
*There was an old owl, who lived in an oak.
The more he saw, the less he spoke.
The less he spoke, the more he heard.
Come on! Get with it! Be like that bird!
*
From Boy’s Life magazine. Amazing what stays with us through the years.
=====
There’s so much good in the worst of us,
And so much bad in the best of us,
It hardly behoves any of us
To go speaking ill of the rest of us.
=====
In counterpoint:
It rains on the just and the unjust fella,
But Unjust has stolen Just’s umbrella.
Lord Bowen:
The rain it raineth on the just,
And upon the unjest fella,
But chiefly on the just because
The unjust hath the just’s umbrella.
Hopefully tongue-twisters are in the spirit of the OP:
She slit a sheet
A sheet she slit
Upon the sheet she slit she slept
I’m not a fig-plucker
Nor a fig-plucker’s son
But I’ll pluck figs
'Till the fig-plucker comes
Good times were had by all.
Mares eat oats,
and does eat oats
and little lambs eat ivy.
a kid will eat ivy too, wouldn’t you?
(that scene scared the hell out of me)
I’m not a pheasant plucker,
I’m a pheasant plucker’s mate.
I’m only plucking pheasants
'cause the pheasant plucker’s late.
I’m not the pheasant plucker,
I’m the pheasant plucker’s son.
I’ll be plucking pleasant pheasants
'Til the pheasant plucking’s done.
My Dad had a lot of those. Two that I can remember are:
There ain’t no justice in this fair land,
I just got a divorce from my old man.
He got the kids by the courts decision,
But the jokes on him - the kids ain’t his’n.
The rain it falls alike upon the just and the unjust fella.
The problem is - the unjust always has the just’s umbrella.
And, of course, the one about eating peas.
Since you brought it up (who’se getting it up?), the cheese was Gorgonzola:
Mr Bloom ate his strips of sandwich, fresh clean bread, with relish of disgust, pungent mustard, the feety savour of green cheese.
The genius of that sentence.
On of my grandmothers (probably paternal, as my maternal GM was from Ireland, and this seems German) brought a song to the party:
*Say there, Mr. Johnny Beck, how could you be so mean?
I told you you’d be sorry for inventing that machine
Now all the neighbor’s cats and dogs’ll never no more be seen
They’ve all been ground to sausages in Johnny Beck’s Machine!
One day a little fat boy came walking in the store
HE bought a pound of sausages and set them on the floor
The boy began to whistle, he whistled a happy tune
And all the little sausages went dancin’ round the room!
Say there, Mr. Johnny Beck, how could you be so mean?
I told you you’d be sorry for inventing that machine
Now all the neighbor’s cats and dogs’ll never no more be seen
They’ve all been ground to sausages in Johnny Beck’s Machine!
One day the machine was broken, Johnny Beck couldnn’t make it go,
And so he climbed inside of it to see what made it so
His wife was having a nightmare, and walking in her sleep
She gave the crank a heck of a yank, and Johnny Beck was meat!
Say there, Mr. Johnny Beck, how could you be so mean?
I told you you’d be sorry for inventing that machine
Now all the neighbor’s cats and dogs’ll never no more be seen
They’ve all been ground to sausages in Johnny Beck’s Machine!*
I wonder where that did come from.
Most versions have it as Johnny Verbeck (though I find Johnny Rebec and Dunderbeck versions as well). And most versions have him being a Dutch butcher. Otherwise, it’s pretty much the same.
This has be recorded with the title Ain’t We Crazy: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1RJ6FF2bxbE
Fuzzy wuzzy was a bear
Fuzzy wuzzy had no hair
Fuzzy wuzzy wasn’t fuzzy…
Was he?
Me Pappy’s name was Ferdanan
Me Mammy’a name was Liza
And so betwix the two of them
They named me Ferd-a-liza.
(Say the last name quickly.)
A naughty one from my dear old dad
Missed the toilet last night
Pissed all over the floor
Cleaned it up with my toothbrush…
Don’t brush my teeth much, any more.
(Sung to “Don’t get around much any more”)