the teapot song

you're a little teapot
short and stout
that being your handle and
that being your -

hey! that's no spout! it's an eye!
and it's winking! it's spitting at me!

he's not a little teapot,
he's a lout
he turns off the lights and
blows the candles out
he spits his boiling venom
straight into my eyes
then does a little dance
to the sound of my cries

he'll sneak right off the table
and crash to the floor
he'll pull himself together
and head straight out the door

they're not all bad, those teapots,
but they're not happy slaves
either pay fair wages or
create teapot enclaves

a free teapot's quite useful
no trouble at all
he'll sing you songs at tea-time
wink you cups when you call

"that can't be right!" maintained alice, as the S.P.T.S. representative tried to wrap her in his banner, "i recall there being some kind of dance involved."
"quite so, quite so," said the representative, "but we weren't certain of how to choreograph the venom so we figured we'd just sit around with placards instead. it's safer, you know."