Classic Poem

In a basket, all the day,
I must sleep the hours away;
And it does no good to cry,
For they simply let me lie.
No one rocks or coddles me;
I am being “trained,” you see.

There are roses on the wall,
But the basket is so tall
I can only see the flowers
When, at the appointed hours,
I am lifted out with care,
To be taken down the stair.

After I am dressed and fed,
Back I go again to bed.
Sleeping, waking, there I lie,
And it does no good to cry.
I shan't have a bit of fun
Till this being “trained” is done.