Oh! God! That Bread Should Be So

The Lily Is All In White, Like A Saint, And So Is No Mate For Me.

My Tears Must Stop, For Every Drop Hinders Needle And Thread.

Some Sigh For This And That; My Wishes Don't Go Far; The World May Wag At Will, So I Have My Cigar.

Boughs Are Daily Rifled By The Gusty Thieves, And The Book Of Nature Getteth Short Of Leaves.

While The Steeples Are Loud In Their Joy, To The Tune Of The Bells' Ring-a-ding, Let Us Chime In A Peal, One And All, For We All Should Be Able To Sing Hullah Baloo.