To the one who wakes the boys
Who are six and eight years young-
Morning replicas of their mother;
They find a loathesome task
In opening early eyes
To a beloved part of the family
Of black and white and four legs;
The atypical bell toll
For whom they rise
Eagerly, with brightly lit faces
To he who seeks their places of slumber
To nose and tickle necks and faces-
His tail, an ecstatic whirlwind of fur;
With anticipation of their love
He steals their blankets in tug of war.
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