My age is three hundred and seventy-two, And I think, with the deepest regret, How I used to pick up and voraciously chew The dear little boys whom I met.
I’ve eaten them raw, in their holiday suits; I’ve eaten them curried with rice;
I’ve eaten them baked, in their jackets and boots, And found them exceedingly nice.
But now that my jaws are too weak for such fare, I think it exceedingly rude
To do such a thing, when I’m quite well aware Little boys do not like to be chewed.
And so I contentedly live upon eels,
And try to do nothing amiss,
And I pass all the time I can spare from my meals In innocent slumber—like this.
