The Polar Bear never makes his bed; He sleeps on a cake of ice instead. He has no blanket, no quilt, no sheet except the rain and snow and sleet. He drifts about on a white ice floe While cold winds howl and blizzards blow And the temperature drops to forty below.
The Polar Bear never makes his bed; The blanket he pulls up over his head Is lined with soft and feathery snow. If ever he rose and turned on the light, He would find a world of bathtub white, And icebergs floating through the night
