Fifteen birds in five firtrees,
Their feathers were fanned in a fiery breeze!
But, funny little birds, they had no wings!
O what shall we do with the funny little things?
O what shall we do with the funny little things?

Roast 'em alive, or stew them in a pot;
fry them, boil them and eat them hot?
Bake and toast 'em, fry and roast 'em
till beards blaze, and eyes glaze;
till hair smells and skins crack,
fat melts, and bones black
in cinders lie
beneath the sky!

So dwarves shall die

Fifteen birds in five firtrees,
Their feathers were fanned in a fiery breeze!
But, funny little birds, they had no wings!
O what shall we do with the funny little things?
O what shall we do with the funny little things?