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.