She's In That State Of Mind That

One Can't Believe Impossible Things.

There Are Three Hundred And Sixty-four Days When You Might Get Un-birthday Presents, And Only One For Birthday Presents, You Know.

All In The Golden Afternoon Full Leisurely We Glide; For Both Our Oars, With Little Skill, By Little Arms Are Plied, While Little Hands Make Vain Pretence Our Wanderings To Guide.

And Thus They Give The Time, That Nature Meant For Peaceful Sleep And Meditative Snores, To Ceaseless Din And Mindless Merriment And Waste Of Shoes And Floors.

Twinkle, Twinkle Little Bat How I Wonder What You're At! Up Above The World You Fly, Like A Tea-tray In The Sky.