He said ‘I look for butterflies That sleep among the wheat: I make them into mutton-pies, And sell them in the street. I sell them unto men,’ he said, ‘Who sail on stormy seas; And that’s the way I get my bread⁠— A trifle, if you please.’

But I was thinking of a plan To dye one’s whiskers green, And always use so large a fan That they could not be seen. So, having no reply to give To what the old man said, I cried, ‘Come, tell me how you live!’ And thumped him on the head.