Classic Poem

The rooks are building on the trees;
They build there every spring:
‘Caw, caw,’ is all they say,
For none of them can sing.

They're up before the break of day,
And up till late at night;
For they must labour busily
As long as it is light.

And many a crooked stick they bring,
And many a slender twig,
And many a tuft of moss, until
Their nests are round and big.

‘Caw, caw.’ Oh, what a noise
They make in rainy weather!
Good children always speak by turns,
But rooks all talk together.