  THERE’S a prim little pond At the back of Beyond, And its waters are over your ears; It’s a sort of a tarn Behind Robin Hood’s barn, Where the fish live a million years. And the mortals who drink At its pebbly brink Are immediately changed into mullets, Whose heads grow immense At their bodies’ expense, And whose eyes become bulbous as bullets. But they willingly stay Who have once found the way, And they crave neither credit nor blame; For to wiggle their tails, And to practise their scales, Is enough in the Fountain of Fame. Herman Knickerbocker VielÉ. |
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