And And And Whimpering
"It was so kind of you to come!
And you do not have lice!"
The Sharpshooter said nothing but
"Pass me a bag of mice:
I wish you were not quite so daft--
It's your turn with the dice"
"I am to blame," the Walrus said
"For making our hags sick,
After we've laughed at them so hard,
And made them rather sick!"
The sharpshooter said nothing but--
"You're such a vulgar hick"
"I seep for you," the Walrus honked:
"I slowly masticate"
With burps and farts he blurted out
A homage to his mate,
Holding his pocket-telescope
Above his balding pate
He took one crone (she smiled, you see)
"You have a pheasant's bun!
Shall we be slipping out the back?
But riposte came there none
For she was on the telephone
To a better man, my son
I bet you wish you had more teeth