And you miss his black and you miss his yellow,
And only succeed in turning over
Your glass of drink on the thirsty clover.
A picnic? Pooh! Why, you merely waste it
When there isn't a wasp to come and taste it.
However, a picnic's got to be,
Though they haven't referred the thing to me.
There's a boat and we put our parcels in it,
And off we push in another minute.
And our pace is certainly rather slow,