Once a wee toggle lived in a well -
But how he came there I couldn’t tell.
He had no teeth and his hair was pink,
He painted his whiskers in with ink;
He kept silk spider’s webs shut in a tin
To wrap around him when the winds blew thin.
His Aunt Clarinda always swore
(But very politely I feel sure)
That his trousies were fashioned of birch-tree bark
Gathered by bobbolinks after dark;
His shirt was red as a ladybird’s wing,
And summer or winter this song he’d sing:
“Down in the dingle the bobbolinks blink;
Out in the wastelands the woofle-whips wink;
Up in the starlight the pelliwigs peer;
But I’m cuddled deep in the well, my dear.”
(Undated, between 1966 and 1970)
