Rob the whales. Feed the hood.

A ballad, as sung in Sherwood

In a forest young and green and bright, there lived a hamster, small but full of fight. His hat was green, his feather flaming red, his quiver towered twice above his head.

The whales grew fat and never had their fill; they dumped the top and left the rest the bill. So Quivvy climbed and let his arrows fly; the whales' bags tore, and coins rained from the sky.

Now every night along the Robinhood Chain, the whales go quiet, guarding ill-got gains. For high up on a branch, a watcher stands: small Quivvy, bow in paw, with all his band.