Tit for Tat
Have you been catching fish, Tom Noddy?
Have you snared a weeping hare?
Have you whistled 'No Nunny’ and gunned a poor bunny,
Or blinded a 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 off you 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 a dan-dangling by:
And hung 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 are cooked yourself!
