The gentle zephyr lightly blows
Across the dewy lawn,
And sleepily the rooster crows,
"Beloved, it is dawn."
The little worms in bed below
Can hear their father wince,
While, up above, a feathered foe
Is busy making mince.
In vain they seize his slippery tail
And try to pull him back;
It makes their little cheeks turn pale
To hear his waistband crack.
They draw him down and crowd around;
Their tears bespeak their love;
For part of him is underground
And part has gone above.
But not for long does sorrow seize
The subterranean mind,
For father grows another piece
In front or else behind.
And now he's up before the dawn,
Long ere the world has stirred,
And eats his breakfast on the lawn
Before the early bird.
* * * * *