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Poem	Little Birds are dining Warily and well, Hid in mossy cell: Hid, I say, by waiters Gorgeous in their gaiters - I've a Tale to tell. Little Birds are feeding Justices with jam, Rich in frizzled ham: Rich, I say, in oysters Haunting shady cloisters - That is what I am. Little Birds are teaching Tigresses to smile, Innocent of guile: Smile, I say, not smirkle - Mouth a semicircle, That's the proper style! Little Birds are sleeping All among the pins, Where the loser wins: Where, I say, he sneezes When and how he pleases - So the Tale begins. Little Birds are writing Interesting books, To be read by cooks: Read, I say, not roasted - Letterpress, when toasted, Loses its good looks. Little Birds are playing Bagpipes on the shore, Where the tourists snore: "Thanks!" they cry. "'Tis thrilling! Take, oh take this shilling! Let us have no more!" Little Birds are bathing Crocodiles in cream, Like a happy dream: Like, but not so lasting - Crocodiles, when fasting, Are not all they seem! Little Birds are choking Baronets with bun, Taught to fire a gun: Taught, I say, to splinter Salmon in the winter - Merely for the fun. Little Birds are hiding Crimes in carpet-bags, Blessed by happy stags: Blessed, I say, though beaten - Since our friends are eaten When the memory flags. Little Birds are tasting Gratitude and gold, Pale with sudden cold: Pale, I say, and wrinkled - When the bells have tinkled, And the Tale is told.
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