When all the birds have gone to sleep,
And all the nights are still,
Then you will hear the fairy pipes come out beyond the hills.
Come out-t-t. Come out-t-t
Listen if you dare.
Up there. Down there-- fairies everywhere.
Oh, hark-ke-kow, Oh, hear.
Can't you hear the tune.
Fairy, fairy pipers underneath the silver moon.
Now that's a funnnneeeeeeee Danny Kaye.
When all the birds have gone to sleep,
And all the nights are still,
Then you will hear the fairy pipes come out beyond the hills.
Come out-t-t. Come out-t-t
Listen if you dare.
Up there. Down there-- fairies everywhere.
Oh, hark-ke-kow, Oh, hear.
Can't you hear the tune.
Fairy, fairy pipers underneath the silver moon.
Now that's a funnnneeeeeeee Danny Kaye.
When all the birds have gone to sleep,
And all the nights are still,
Then you will hear the fairy pipes come out beyond the hills.
Come out-t-t. Come out-t-t
Listen if you dare.
Up there. Down there-- fairies everywhere.
Oh, hark-ke-kow, Oh, hear.
Can't you hear the tune.
Fairy, fairy pipers underneath the silver moon.
Now that's a funnnneeeeeeee Danny Kaye.
Once, twice, three times a Letty.
you one funny rady
You can e no mo...you go home nau.
letty letty bo nanna fanna Betty fe fi mo metty----
LETTY!
Hey, bunnicula. Palfanzdollfa-de, u b ph nee 2
Think I'll go home, now.
Yeh sub kya ho raha hai ?
Que? Sera sera? Door is day?
Yes, door is day and Hudson rocks. Quid fiat, fiat.
quid fiat, fiat,
Whatever will be, will be.
The future's not ours to see,
quid fiat, fiat.
(Wow! what a difference a Day makes)
Fiat eh, I hear they cost a few quid.
I'm waitin' for Cav to say, "Quid pro quo", Andy. Wonder if that includes fava beans.
I always thought it was Clarisse, but Andy is more silly. Not only do I have no quid, I am no pro at "quo", whatever the heck that is. It sounds like some secretive club that teaches odd bird calls. "Quo, quo!"
It's called The Vadis Bird Society. You're funny, Cav.
I am shocked that so many frustrated political swallows have not already fled to this Capistrano of plain silliness.
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Roald Dahl
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Goldilocks and the Three Bears
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This famous wicked little tale
Should never have been put on sale.
It is a mystery to me
Why loving parents cannot see
That this is actually a book
About a brazen little crook.
Had I the chance I wouldn't fail
To clap young Goldilocks in jail.
Now just imagine how you'd feel
If you had cooked a lovely meal,
Delicious porridge, steaming hot,
Fresh coffee in the coffee-pot,
With maybe toast and marmalade,
The table beautifully laid,
One place for you and one for dad,
Another for your little lad.
Then dad cries, 'Golly-gosh! Gee-whizz!
'Oh cripes! How hot this porridge is!
'Let's take a walk along the street
'Until it's cool enough to eat.'
He adds, 'An early morning stroll
'Is good for people on the whole.
'It makes your appetite improve
'It also helps your bowels to move.'
No proper wife would dare to question
Such a sensible suggestion,
Above all not at breakfast-time
When men are seldom at their prime
No sooner are you down the road
Than Goldilocks, that little toad
That nosy thieving little louse,
Comes sneaking in your empty house.
She looks around. She quickly notes
Three bowls brimful of porridge oats.
And while still standing on her feet,
She grabs a spoon and starts to eat.
I say again, how would you feel
If you had made this lovely meal
And some delinquent little tot
Broke in and gobbled up the lot?
But wait! That's not the worst of it!
Now comes the most distressing bit.
You are of course a house proud wife,
And all your happy married life
You have collected lovely things
Like gilded cherubs wearing wings,
And furniture by Chippendale
Bought at some famous auction sale.
But your most special valued treasure,
The piece that gives you endless pleasure
Is one small children's dining-chair,
Elizabethan, very rare.
It is in fact your joy and pride,
Passed down to you on grandma's side.
But Goldilocks, like many freaks,
Does not appreciate antiques.
She doesn't care, she doesn't mind,
And now she plonks her fat behind
Upon this dainty precious chair,
And crunch! It busts beyond repair.
A nice girl would at once exclaim,
'Oh dear! Oh heavens! What a shame!'
Not Goldie. She begins to swear.
She bellows, 'What a lousy chair!'
And uses one disgusting word
That luckily you've never heard.
(I dare not write it, even hint it.
Nobody would ever print it.)
You'd think by now this little skunk
Would have the sense to do a bunk.
But no. I very much regret
She hasn't nearly finished yet.
Deciding she would like a rest,
She says, 'Let's see which bed is best.'
Upstairs she goes and tries all three.
(Here comes the next catastrophe.)
Most educated people choose
To rid themselves of socks and shoes
Before they clamber into bed.
But Goldie didn't give a shred.
Her filthy shoes were thick with grime,
And mud and mush and slush and slime.
Worse still, upon the heel of one
Was something that a dog had done.
I say once more, what would you think
If all this horrid dirt and stink
Was smeared upon your eiderdown
By this revolting little clown?
(The famous story has no clues
To show the girl removed her shoes.)
Oh, what a tale of crime on crime!
Let's check it for a second time
Crime One, the prosecution's case:
She breaks and enters someone's place
Crime Two, the prosecutor notes:
She steals a bowl of porridge oats
Crime Three: She breaks a precious chair
Belonging to the Baby Bear.
Crime Four: She smears each spotless sheet
With filthy messes from her feet.
A judge would say without a blink,
'Ten years hard labour in the clink!'
But in the book, as you will see,
The little beast gets off scot-free,
While tiny children near and far
Shout, 'Goody-good! Hooray! Hurrah!'
'Poor darling Goldilocks!' they say,
'Thank goodness that she got away!'
Myself, I think I'd rather send
Young Goldie to a sticky end.
'Oh daddy!' cried the Baby Bear,
'My porridge gone! It isn't fair!'
'Then go upstairs,' the Big Bear said,
'Your porridge is upon the bed.
'But as it's inside mademoiselle,
'You'll have to eat her up as well.'
Vivien. I love Raold Dahl, but also James Thurber:
The Little Girl and the Wolf
by James Thurber
One afternoon a big wolf waited in a dark forest for a little girl to come along carrying a basket of food to her grandmother. Finally a little girl did come along and she was carrying a basket of food. "Are you carrying that basket to your grandmother?" asked the wolf. The little girl said yes, she was. So the wolf asked her where her grandmother lived and the little girl told him and he disappeared into the wood.
When the little girl opened the door of her grandmother's house she saw that there was somebody in bed with a nightcap and nightgown on. She had approached no nearer than twenty-five feet from the bed when she saw that it was not her grandmother but the wolf, for even in a nightcap a wolf does not look any more like your grandmother than the Metro-Goldwyn lion looks like Calvin Coolidge. So the little girl took an automatic out of her basket and shot the wolf dead.
(Moral: It is not so easy to fool little girls nowadays as it used to be.)
Are any of you folks familiar with a thin little volume called Politically Correct Bedtime Stories[Macmillan © 1994] by James Finn Garner? I highly recommend it. The jacket blurb says the author is "...the descendant of dead white European males...This is his first processed tree carcass."
I do know that one, and second the recommendation.
