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.