Little grains of rhubarb,

Spatula'd with skill,

Make the mighty bolus

And the little pill.

Little pence and half-pence,

Hoarded up by stealth,

Make the mighty total

Of the miser's wealth

Little trips to Randwick,

Taking six to three,

Make the out-at-elbows

Seedy swells we see.

Little sprees on oysters,

Bottled stout and ale,

Lead but to the cloisters

Of the gloomy gaol.

Little tracts and tractlets,

Scattered here and there,

Lead the sinner's footsteps

To the house of prayer.

Little bits of paper,

Headed I.O.U.,

Ever draw the Christian

Closer to the Jew.

Little chords and octaves,

Little flats and sharps,

Make the tunes the angels

Play on golden harps.

Little bouts with broom-sticks,

Carving forks and knives,

Make the stirring drama

Of our married lives.

Little flakes of soap-suds,

Glenfield starch, and blue,

Make the saint's white shirt-fronts

And the sinner's too.

Little tiny insects,

Smaller than a flea,

Make the coral inlands

In the southern sea.

Little social falsehoods,

Such as "Not at home,"

Lead to realms of darkness

Where the wicked roam.

Likewise little cuss words

Such as "blast," and "blow,"

Quite as much as wuss words

Fill the place below.

Original