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Road-Song of the Bandar-log
Here we go in a flung festoon Half-way up to the jealous moon! Donít you envy our pranceful bands? Donít you wish you had extra hands? Wouldnít you like if your tails were--so-- Curved in the shape of a Cupidís bow? Now youíre 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 wise and good, Done by merely wishing we could. Weíve forgotten, but--never mind, Brother, thy tail hangs down behind! All the talk we ever have heard Uttered by bat or beast or bird-- Hide or fin or scale or feather-- Jabber it quickly and all together! Excellent! Wonderful! Once again! Now we are talking just like men! Letís pretend we are...never mind, Brother, thy tail hangs down behind! This is the way of the Monkey-kind. Then join our leaping lines that scumfish through the pines, That rocket by where, light and high, the wild grape swings. By the rubbish in our wake, and the noble noise we make, Be sure, be sure, weíre going to do some splendid things!