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?