VIII
There is a curious boy, whose name
Is Lumpy Loggerhead;
His greatest joy is—oh, for shame!—
To spend his time in bed.
They fit with gongs alarum clocks
That make your blood run chill;
And they encourage crowing cocks
Beneath his window-sill.
In vain the gongs,—his eyes are shut—
In vain the cocks do crow;
Empty on him a water-butt,
And he will say, “Hallo!”
But only in a drowsy style,
And in a second more
He sleeps—and, oh! to see him smile!
And, oh! to hear him snore!
He seems to carry, all day long,
Sleep in his very shape;
And, though you may be brisk and strong,
You often want to gape
When Lumpy Loggerhead comes near,
Whose bed is all his joy.
How glad I am he is not here,
That very sleepy boy!
