the Magician
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O the swallows fly about the sky, And they swoop among the trees, And they catch small bugs in their little mugs And swallow them down with ease. It's fun, no doubt, to whirl about In a swift and airy jig; But as for me, I'd much rather be A pig. The rabbit, at night, when the moon is bright, Waits till its nearly dawn; Then out he hops, with his friends plays cops And robbers upon the lawn. It's fun, I suppose, to wriggle your nose And live on a lettuce diet; But it's not my dish, and I wouldn't wish To try it. O cats are slim and full of vim And they stay out late at night; They're merry blades, who sing serenades On the fence, by the moon's pale light. It may be fun to wash with your tongue And sing like the late Caruso, But I'll tell you square, I wouldn't care To do so. Now take this pig. His brains aren't much big- ger than cats' or swallows' or rabbits', But in debate his words carry weight, And he's formed very regular habits. Pigs know all the answers; they're conceded as dancers, To be light as aabird on a twig. So it mustn't gall you if people call you A pig. |
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