Tit for Tat
Have you been catching of fish, Tom Noddy?
Have you snared a weeping hare?
Have you whistled, ‘No Nunny,’and gunned a poor
bunny,
Or a blinded bird of the air?
Have you trod like a murderer through the green
woods,
Through the dewy deep dingles and glooms,
While every small creature screamed shrill to Dame
Nature,
‘He comes —and he comes!’?
Wonder I very much do, Tom Noddy,
If ever, when you are a-roam,
An Ogre from space will stoop a lean face
And lug you home:
Lug you home over his fence, Tom Noddy,
Of thorn-sticks nine yards high,
With your bent knees strung round his old iron gun
And your head dan-dangling by:
And hang you up stiff on a hook, Tom Noddy,
From a stone-cold pantry shelf,
Whence your eyes will glare in an empty stare,
Till you’re cooked yourself!