Mother Hubbard’s Lament

The old ways are dying out
and we, I fear, must fade with them.
Nobody now makes homemade pie
so the blackbirds sing and fly free.
All the wells have run dry
and the world grows dim
since the candlemaker’s
passed into receivership;
and, though the jolly pie man
peddles well his wares
at the fairground, no one buys.

Now the pipes have fallen still
and the fiddlers have ceased;
all the tarts are either burned or long stolen.
For want of more honey,
the pale Queen weeps
and the Grand Duke numbers his dead.
While the pussycat dines
on the startled owl,
Big George and Little Willie are indicted;
and, in the counting house,
as the numbers stack up,
the old King puts a pistol to his head.