Sound of the bugle rings into my ears,
I get up, averting my mind from my fears.
I go down to the park, packet in my hand,
En route, I collect my other friends.
We climb up onto the tree, one by one,
Talking about everything under the sun.
The treehouse, we enter, with a ceremonial step,
Where did the days go when treehouses were hep?
We sit in our treehouse, round the round table,
Sipping on lemonade, reading our books of fables.
We take out our packets, empty their contents,
As upon our having lack of fun, we comment.
Ah! What is it that we spy through the window?
Is that a friend passing through or a foe?
Excited, we take out our binoculars and take our posts,
But when we see through, we turn white as ghosts.
It isn’t a friend or a foe but what we fear even more,
Our parents are looking for us, to get us home for sure.
We climb down the tree, quicker than crazy cats,
Lest our parents chase us out like we’re sewer rats.