The Trappings of Midget Bowling

There, there, young Finn
Your neatly ironed curtains are far too thin
And the pineapple of your mother
Has taught you to never feed a Swede

Ohmigosh, the cat has jumped its bail
Now everyone can own a copy of
Uncle Seamus’ bagpipe records

And you thought whistling Dixie
Was an innocent way
To earn your wooden nickels

Lo and lo, the doughboy sings
His wretched tale,
But the creeping custard
Buys some time for Wily William Walker’s
Plan to highjack rickshaws

Run, Chinaman, run!
And bring us to the setting sun
Where elephant boys in coats of dreams
Sautee themselves in rocky streams.