With the clouds still white,
They are opened so wide,
When the sun is so bright,
There is still much fright.
Sometimes when the day is still hot,
The magnetic lids might close,
But their closure is usually invited,
By the thick darkening of the cloud.
When the songs of the perching birds are heard,
With the croaking of the ugly frogs,
Hiding in their filthy gutters,
And sleeping in their filthy shelters.
Then, the magnetic lids close,
With their beds heavily wet,
Till the dawn of the morning,
When their world is raised for working.