The Song of Quoodle

They haven't got no noses,
  The fallen sons of Eve;
  Even the smell of roses
  Is not what they supposes;
  But more than mind discloses
  And more than men believe.

  They haven't got no noses,
  They cannot even tell
  When door and darkness closes
  The park a Jew encloses,
  Where even the Law of Moses
  Will let you steal a smell.

  The brilliant smell of water,
  The brave smell of a stone,
  The smell of dew and thunder,
  The old bones buried under,
  Are things in which they blunder
  And err, if left alone.

  The wind from winter forests,
  The scent of scentless flowers,
  The breath of brides' adorning,
  The smell of snare and warning,
  The smell of Sunday morning,
  God gave to us for ours.

  . . . . .

  And Quoodle here discloses
  All things that Quoodle can,
  They haven't got no noses,
  They haven't got no noses,
  And goodness only knowses
  The Noselessness of Man.