Fair little boys, a few feathers in line on the heads,
Have just come down one more time, once again back from heaven.
Moonblind and dazzled at daybreak, street urchins for bread,
They beg for pardon in hopes of them being forgiven.
Slowly enough as though they were shy, alien-like squeakers,
Still powerless to come to themselves out of sleep and a mess,
Fumbling around for their chamber pots, open-door sneakers,
Tangled up in their own nightshirts, like Father's caress.
Chorus:
Quiet at play, at the bedside of woman and man.
Each break of dawn even birds in their nests would think twice.
Knowing they have to get things done as fast as they can
The boys do those things at their best while as silent as mice.
All ears to whispers and creaks from their nursery cubby,
In fear and too willing to weep way too bitter a sob.
They wish to go out from their home, so thin-skinned and so chubby
That they are ashamed of as sheepish a thrill and a throb.
As long as the big ones are lying in bed, quite uneasy,
Until they have found that their kids are still niveously dressed,
Sweet angels enjoy themselves carelessly, finding it pleasing;
The music should never awake those who've just gone to rest.
Chorus:
Quiet at play, at the bedside of woman and man.
Each break of dawn even birds in their nests would think twice.
Knowing they have to get things done as fast as they can
The boys do those things at their best while as silent as mice.