They all climbed up on a high board-fence—

    Nine little Goblins, with green-glass eyes—

    Nine little Goblins that had no sense,

    And couldn't tell coppers from cold mince pies;

    And they all climbed up on the fence, and sat—

    And I asked them what they were staring at.

    And the first one said, as he scratched his head

    With a queer little arm that reached out of his ear

    And rasped its claws in his hair so red—

    "This is what this little arm is fer!"

    And he scratched and stared, and the next one said

    "How on earth do

     you

    scratch your head?"

    And he laughed like the screech of a rusty hinge—

    Laughed and laughed till his face grew black;

    And when he choked, with a final twinge

    Of his stifling laughter, he thumped his back

    With a fist that grew on the end of his tail

    Till the breath came back to his lips so pale.

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