The Demon of the forest from a limb on yonder yew
Displays a set of ivories all glistening with dew,
He dips one finger in the bowl of mysticated stew.

The scientific Taxidermist stuffs the Kangaroo,
Assisted by the faithful Thomas, innocent and true.
The faithful Thomas is a trump with eyes of azure hue.

The bundle of excelsior is growing very small.
The scientific Taxidermist doesn't care at all;
But furtively he tries to stab a bed-bug on the wall.

The faithful Thomas, ever watchful, says, "I'll go and bring
Some more of that excelsior, also a hank of string,
We haven't got enough of hay to stuff a dodo's wing."

"You see we're short of stuffing, sir," the faithful Thomas pled.
"You'd better let me go and buy the hay, and also thread."
"There's quite enough, there's quite enough," the Taxidermist said.

The faithful Thomas, with his knife, begins to skin the mink.
The Taxidermist drops his tools, giving a knowing wink, Leaving the shop with this remark, "I'll go and take a drink."

The faithful Thomas skins the mink, then scrapes the dodo's bone.
No use. He cannot work at all. He murmurs out one moan,
Singing the De Profundis in a hollow monotone.

Outside the house nature is black, the world is full of stacks
Of fallen timber. Thru the cave the ugly thunder cracks
Over the Taxidermist—he is sharpening his axe.

The Demon of the forest smiles, delighted with the scene,
Such utter destitution of all charity—a sheen
Of Hellish satisfaction thrills the Demon thru th' spleen.

The sun came up, the sun went down, leaving us full of awe,
The Taxidermist walks along the same path as before, As for the faithful Thomas—he is lost for evermore.

The scientific taxidermist finishes the work
Of stuffing up the kangaroo. Now it is time to perk. He scrapes his bloody fingernails, then hides away the dirk.

The Demon cracks his knuckles as he chuckles in the ditch,
All hell is filled with merriment, the smell is very rich.
The Devil's wife is working, knitting, picking stitch by stitch.

The people in the neighbourhood their own conclusions drew,
Each county clown from Daggerstown is twisted like a screw
Without an edge lost in a hedge—they don't know what to do.

The Faculty attended by the Mandarin San Toy,
Call on the Taxidermist. They are led by that old boy
The Burgomaster, dressed in aromatic corduroy.

The most impartial City Marshal springs this question, "May
We ask about—where is your lout, the faithful Thomas, pray?"
The Taxidermist made reply, "I really cannot say."

We all depart. Each beating heart is burning with a flush
Of apprehension. There's no mention—we are made of mush,
And if we broach the theme again, the listener says "Hush!"

The kangaroo upon the shelf is very lifelike, yes,
Appearing to all visitors uncanny to excess,
Struggling with a secret mysterious distress.

The years roll by, the witches cry, stupendous things bestir,
The dancing demons, prancing tremens drive th' poisoned spur
Straight through th' mire of hot Hell fire, stinging th' beastly cur.

The Taxidermist, prospering, has risen from the ditch;
From step to step he is all pep—yes, he is very rich.
He runs an exhibition place up in the highest niche.

The Taxidermist feels his oat, the man is in the swim,
Great King of Taxidermists—one gala day for him,
Strutting around among his guests, his figure neat and trim.

The bunch of stuffed mammalias, each in a natural pose,
They line against the wall, whilst from its pedestal arose
The figure of the kangaroo, quite mangy on the nose.

I deem it rather pitiful that such a perfect, true,
Majestic specimen of art, bow to the buggy crew,
With doggy-mangy remedy I rub the kangaroo.

The Demon of the everglade, blessing the kangaroo,
Stirs up its own concoction, the patent honeydew,
Consigning it forever to the mysticated stew.

The Taxidermist says that I may wear his dressing gown,
The liniment is greasy and it stains my fingers brown.
I rub the mangy kangaroo, I rub it up and down.

I rub the smelly ointment in, rubbing with rapid pace,
Crack—the kangaroo breaks open—see that yawning space,
And through the opening appears a grinning human face.

I see the missing Thomas, he is grinning from above,
Half hidden in the kangaroo, as docile as a dove.
The face of faithful Thomas—those features we all love.

The murdered victim of the axe now claims the right of way.
Half hidden in the kangaroo, corrupting in the hay.
Oh, Taxidermist, now thou squirmest, 'tis thy judgment day!

The scientific Taxidermist gurgles bloody foam,
Then falling down upon a rock, he smashes in his dome.
Another crash—the brains ooze out. Vengeance is driven home.

The goblin of the universe looks down without a sigh
Sneering upon the lifeless nasty human forms. They lie
Upon their backs with sightless eyes turned upward to the sky.

We chuck the Taxidermist, also Thomas, in a well,
Thus burying the hatchet deep all in one narrow cell,
Now, let us hope they soon arrive each in their proper hell.

We cast a load of cobble-stones into the well—the flash
Is sickening—an echo seems to rumble up a splash.
Then all is over—silence—worse than any thunder crash.

The Demon of the forest from a limb on yonder yew
Displays a set of ivories all glistening with dew,
He drops one finger in the bowl of mysticated stew,
And then performs this mockery of blessing on the crew:
"Be thou a fallen Christian, a Mohammedan or Jew
We surely keep reserved for you one saturated pew,
Flaming with boiling, oiling beer, that's the sort we brew, All reprobates with axes grace the cages in my zoo."

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