sun he yawns
i can't go out
it's not yet dawn
don't make me flout
the times of night
when moon is bright
it's not my time
to start the climb

so angels grab their rods of fire
try to waken in him the ire
until the sphere burns red hot
and rolls outside of heavenly cot

and thus young sun appears red
when first peeps up his golden head
o'er horizon with arrow rays
he starts each morn anew the day

and when his course has run and ended
off to bed he's told and scolded
but, as a minion, with rebellious streak,
begs to stay, to shine, though weak

so angels take their rods again
and bid him off from sky terrain
and so the ball o' fire goes scarlet
shameful as a blushing harlot