How doth the merry little lamb
     Whose fleece is white as snow,
And who was born a very ram,
     A-frolic to and fro.

He sports and plays, doth safely graze,
     And spots a busy bee;
And for a moment he doth chase
     The bug with mirthful glee.

A moment more, he's crying out,
     And bleating with dismay.
The bee has stung him on the snout
     And marred his splendid day!

Beware, the bee is only friend
     To others of his kind.
The stinger on his latter end
     Was made for lambs to mind.