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(Sung in honor of Rikki-tikki-tavi)
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Singer and tailor am I—
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Doubled the joys that I know—
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Proud of my lilt to the sky,
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Proud of the house that I sew—
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Over and under, so weave I my music—so weave I the house that I
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Sing to your fledglings again,
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Mother, oh lift up your head!
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Evil that plagued us is slain,
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Death in the garden lies dead.
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Terror that hid in the roses is impotent—flung on the dung-hill
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Who has delivered us, who?
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Tell me his nest and his name.
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Rikki, the valiant, the true,
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Tikki, with eyeballs of flame,
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Rikk-tikki-tikki, the ivory-fanged, the hunter with eyeballs of
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Give him the Thanks of the Birds,
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Bowing with tail feathers spread!
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Praise him with nightingale words—
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Nay, I will praise him instead.
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Hear! I will sing you the praise of the bottle-tailed Rikki, with
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(Here Rikki-tikki interrupted, and the rest of the song is
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