Little Bird
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.
Lewis Carroll
Lewis Carroll, (born January 27, 1832, Daresbury, Cheshire, England—died January 14, 1898, Guildford, Surrey), English logician, mathematician, photographer, and novelist, especially remembered for Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (1865) and its sequel, Through the Looking-Glass (1871). His poem The Hunting of the Snark (1876) is nonsense literature of the highest order.