Out on the margin of moonshine land,
    Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs,
Out where the whing-whang loves to stand,
Writing his name with his tail on the sand,
And wiping it out with his oogerish hand;
    Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs.

Is it the gibber of gungs and keeks?
    Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs,
Or what is the sound the whing-whang seeks,
Crouching low by the winding creeks,
And holding his breath for weeks and weeks?
    Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs.

Aroint him the wraithest of wraithly things!
    Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs,
'Tis a fair whing-whangess with phosphor rings,
And bridal jewels of fangs and stings,
And she sits and as sadly and softly sings
As the mildewed whir of her own dead wings;
    Tickle me, dear; tickle me here.
    Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs.