They'd promise me a life of play--
A never ending holiday;
But I would say quite plainly,
And, oh, how stern I'd look!
Do you think that you can tempt me
While Sally is our cook?

If I were a little fire balloon
I'd float aloft to Mars,
I'd pay a call on Venus
And chatter with the stars,
And just as I'd be fluttering across the yellow moon,
The angels would come singing a solemn Sunday tune.
They'd beckon to me gravely,
They'd tell me I could stay,
They'd show me all the jewels
That pave the milky way.
They'd promise me a golden crown
And silver robes like eider-down,
They'd give me harps with shiny strings
And wonderfully fluffy wings;
BUT--I would tell them plainly
I didn't want to die--
Till all the angel cooks had learned
How Sally makes mince pie!