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The lion just adores to eat
A lot of red and tender meat,
And if you ask the lion what
Is much the tenderest of the lot,
He will not say a roast of lamb
Or curried beef or devilled ham
Or crispy pork or corned beef hash
Or sausages or mutton mash.
Then could it be a big plump hen?
He answers no. What is it, then?
Oh, lion dear, could I not make
You happy with a lovely steak?
Could I entice you from your lair
With rabbit-pie or roa
sted hare?
The lion smiled and shook his head.
He came up very close and said,
“The meat I am about to chew
Is neither steak nor chops. IT’S YOU.”
The Scorpion
You ought to thank your lucky star
That here in England where you are
You’ll never find (or so it’s said)
A scorpion inside your bed.
The scorpion’s name is Stingaling,
A most repulsive ugly thing,
And I would never recommend
That you should treat him as a friend.
His scaly skin is black as black
With armour-plate upon his back.
