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!