Bumbles, tumbles, rumbles and humbles . . .

the power of the little child is not so hard to find

it stems from chance yet inside to flee the grindy grind.

you ask of it to stay a while, to remind you of that wind

where hearts were young enough to sail, and dark would brief rescind.

war could break out, a ship could sink, twelve agreements come to end

but they might take no note of it, their leap rope mend they’d tend.

and you would whistle as they go, and they would clap their fingers

for to them, the end is very far, and their bees have fewer stingers!