My age is three hundred and seventy-two.
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I think, with the deepest regret,
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how I used to pick up and voraciously chew
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the dear little boys that I met.
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I've eaten them raw, in their holiday suits,
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eaten them curried with rice.
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I've eaten them baked, in their jackets and boots,
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and found them exceedingly nice.
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But now that my jaws are too weak for such fare,
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I think it's exceedingly rude
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to do such a thing, when I'm quite well aware,
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little boys do not like being chewed.
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Little boys do not like being chewed.
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So I contentedly live upon eels,
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and try to do nothing amiss,
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pass all the time I can spare for my meals
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in innocent slumber like this.
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Innocent slumber like this.
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(More eels my lady?
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Perhaps some bubble and squeak,
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or a little toad in the hole?
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A Lyconshire hot pot, perhaps?
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That would be nice.)
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And so now I contentedly live upon eels,
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and try to do nothing amiss,
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pass all the time I can spare for my meals
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in innocent slumber like this.
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Innocent slumber like this.
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Word to your mother.
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-----------------
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The Sleepy Giant
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| Natalie Merchant |
