There once was a bird named Late
Whose habits secured his fate.
Loved watching the moon
and sleeping ’til noon,
So worms, this poor bird never ate
Being the last bird on the lawn
Late hunted while stifling yawns
His belly, it growled
His beak, it scowled
Early worms long since gone
So what’s a poor bird to do?
Ignore what he loves so true?
Should he go to bed early
like a good little birdy?
Or can he have worms and eat them too?