Road-Song of the Bandar-Log

Here we go in a flung festoon, Half-way up to the jealous moon! Don't you envy our pranceful bands? Don't you wish you had extra hands? Wouldn't you like if your tails were--so-- Curved in the shape of a Cupid's bow? Now you're angry, but--never mind, Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!

Here we sit in a branchy row, Thinking of beautiful things we know; Dreaming of deeds that we mean to do, All complete, in a minute or two-- Something noble and grand and good, Won by merely wishing we could. Now we're going to--never mind, Brother, thy tail hangs down