Oh, hark 

at the lark 

a-singing in the park. 

 

Oh, joy 

to the boy 

out with his new toy. 

 

He’s finished his birthday trifle. 

Now he’s playing with his air rifle, 

as through the park he walks 

and seeks his quarry to stalk. 

 

Like a gong 

goes the song 

of the lark among 

 

the bushes, 

while the thrushes 

in their wisdom each hushes, 

 

and alerted to his target, 

like a cockney off to Margate 

or even down to Brighton, 

the boy’s excitement heightens, 

 

and "pop!" - 

see it drop 

from the tree top. 

 

Now hark 

at the barks 

of the dogs in the park