"Fifteen birds in five fir trees,

Their feathers were fanned in a fiery breeze.

But funny little birds - they had no wings.

Oh, what shall we do with the funny little things?

Oh, what shall we do with the funny little things?


Roast them alive or stew 'em in a pot!

Fry them, boil them, eat them hot?

Bake 'em! Toast 'em! Fry 'em! Roast 'em

Till beards blaze and eyes glaze;

Till hair swells and skins crack,

Fat melts and bones black

In cinders lie beneath the sky!

So the Dwarves shall die! (Ha ha ha...)


Fifteen birds in five fir trees,

Their feathers were fanned in a fiery breeze.

But funny little birds - they had no wings.

Oh, what shall we do with the funny little things?

Oh, what shall we do with the funny little things?"