And startling, as when to that Indian root
The traveller stretches his hand for the fruit,
And a crested head comes glittering out
With a tongue that is somewhat forkèd no doubt,
And a tail—that has quite a moral!
And who'd have believed that diminutive thing
Just form'd as you'd say, to kiss and to cling,
Would ever have opened, except to sing,
Those lips, that look so choral?
Behold the soft little struggling ball!