Don't you envy our pranceful bands?
Don't you wish your feet were hands?
Wouldn't you like if your tails were—so—
Curved in the shape of a cupid's bow?
Now you're angry, but—never mind—
Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!
Here we sit in a branchy row,
Thinking of beautiful things we know;
Dreaming of deeds we mean to do,
All complete in a minute or two—