Oh, little lemming, running to the sea,
tell us, tell us, what can the matter be,
that you ignore your friends who warn and shout
that you should try to stop and turn about.

The path that you are on will not end well,
and yet you are determined and pell-mell.
We doubt your diagnosis of depressed,
when you pursue your purpose with such zest.

Oh, little lemming, what’s the tragic spell
that makes you deaf to caution, though we yell?
You turn from us who’d help you and you choose
to run with those you know are bound to lose.

Oh, little lemming, can’t you stop and see
that you are headed for catastrophe?

 
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