O dock-a-doodle dack, Boil a noodle black. Boil it in Artsakh (Nagorno-Karabakh), Boil it in Tibet With salt and alkanet, Boil it in Darjeeling That will be a good thing. O zock-a-zoodle zed Bake the noodle red. Bake it in Alaska, Kansas or Nebraska. Bake it in St Andrews With raisins and cashews. Bake it in Singapore, And just a little more. O cock-a-coodle coo, Roast the noodle blue Roast it in Santa Cruz Hormuz or Veracruz Roast it in Tripoli With white ravioli Roast in Wollongong But do not keep it long. O mock-a-moodle meen Fry the noodle green. Fry it in Mandalay In oil of Olay, Fry it in Cameroon Under a waxing moon, Fry it in East London Until this song is done.
The message is supreme;
Born in the heart,
and lilting itself
from tongue to tongue,
throwing its scent
over wind and wave;
travelling on dots
or fingers
when blindness
or silence bar its way.
It hews itself into stone
or burns itself onto magnetic discs;
it is the message that lives
and I exist
solely to pass it on.