1. Road-Song of the Bandar-Log
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Here we go in a flung festoon,
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Half-way up to the jealous moon!
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Don't you envy our pranceful bands?
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Don't you wish you had extra hands?
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Wouldn't you like if your tails were—so—
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Curved in the shape of a Cupid's bow?
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Now you're angry, but—never mind,
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Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!
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Here we sit in a branchy row,
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Thinking of beautiful things we know;
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Dreaming of deeds that we mean to do,
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All complete, in a minute or two—
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Something noble and wise and good,
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Done by merely wishing we could.
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We've forgotten, but—never mind,
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Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!
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All the talk we ever have heard
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Uttered by bat or beast or bird—
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Hide or fin or scale or feather—
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Jabber it quickly and all together!
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Excellent! Wonderful! Once again!
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Now we are talking just like men!
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Let's pretend we are ... never mind,
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Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!
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This is the way of the Monkey-kind.
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Then join our leaping lines that scumfish through the pines,
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That rocket by where, light and high, the wild grape swings.
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By the rubbish in our wake, and the noble noise we make,
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