Classic Poem

A little pig lived in a sty,
He fed on meals three times a day,
He drank sweet milk from a shining trough
And slept at night on a bed of hay.

This little pig once left his sty
And roam'd three fields or more away,
He found the slope where the oak trees grew
And where the plump brown acorns lay.
And he ate, and he ate,
As little pigs do;
He ate and he ate,
The whole day through.
Then he came back home to his bed of hay,
Grunt-grunt-grunting all the way.