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.