THE Widdle Waddles thrill—
They tumble down the hill.
          The dingle in the pit is
                   Very deep.
The useful pollywog
Will shortly be a frog.
          The jingle from the jungle
                   is asleep.

The striking of the clock
Says, "get along and hock
          Your overcoat. Don't trifle
                   With a bump."
The chip, the little sparrow,
Is crushed beneath the barrow.
          The jingle from the jungle
                   Takes a jump.

We snuggle in the hedge,
We cannot find a kedge,
          With which to catch the tiger
                   In the zoo.
We grab it by the snout.
We try to yank about
          The Widdles and the Waddles
                   In the stew.

The Widdles and the Waddles
Call for the ducky daddies,
          I rise above my trouble
                   With a swish.
The Waddles and the Widdles
They rosin up their fiddles
          Flopping round about,
                   Poor silly fish.

Now in the Seventh Heaven
My number is eleven.
          High in the catalogue.
                   One dandy guy.
Here in this place I daily
Play on the Ukulele,
          Until my tongue and lung
                   Both petrify.

The Widdle Waddle mixture
Is now one certain fixture,
          Quite sprinkled o'er with
                   Listerated hog.
This is the innovation
Which makes my whole creation
          As happy as a rocky
                   Stocky frog.

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