Suppose you must stand when you wanted to sleep,
I am sure you would call for your mamma and weep,
And your poor little legs, they would cramp, I have guessed,
And your poor little knees, they would call for a rest;
And you’d cry, I am sure,
For so weary you’d be;
And you’d want to lie down,
But you couldn’t, you see.
And that is the reason why we should feel bad
For the poor little birdies, who ought to be glad;