Classic Poem

The little red lark
Arises with dawn,
And soars to the skies
From her nest on the lawn.

But the little brown thrush,
When morning is red,
He flies to our casement,
And pops in his head.

“Get up, lazy bones!
Here's your shift! There's your smock!
Get up now. Get up,
For it's past eight o'clock!”