Email Poem

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Poem

Are you sleeping, brother John?
The cock doth crow, to let you know,
if you be wise, tis time to rise.
If you see a barber, shaving a pig, 
ask how many hairs to make a wig.

This is the man, all tattered and torn,
a stick in his hand, a stone in his throat.
He promised to buy me some bonny blue
ribbons to bind up my bonny brown hair,
a silver nutmeg, and a golden pear.

Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree
a diller, a dollar, a ten o'clock scholar,
who won't get up to feed the swine,
but sups on strawberries, sugar and cream, 
and sits upon cushions to sew a fine seam.

In marble walls as white as milk,
all the trees are bread and cheese.
Diddle, diddle, dumpling, my son John,
all for the sake of my little nut tree,
he calls for his fiddlers three.

The ants are marching one by one,
five little monkeys jump on his bed,
all bringing a swarm of bees in May.
John takes a stone to throw at their heads,
and grinds up their bones to bake his bread.

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