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.