A little story I'll try to tell,
Of three little brothers, you know quite well;
They live together in a snug little room,
And when asked to play, appear very soon.

They never eat a morsel of food,
Do you know why? They are made of wood.
No doubt, you would like to hear
The name of the first. He is called sphere.

On master sphere no corner nor edge can you trace,
All that he has is one smooth curved face;
And let me tell you, he loves to play,
He does not care a moment to stay.

What he wants is a roll, a toss, or a twirl, and I
Want a name of something round like him, from each boy and girl;
As I have said, master sphere has a brother,
But they do not in the least resemble each other.

Indeed they are far from looking the same,
Brother cube has six faces, all of which are plane;
Eight corners and twelve edges he must show,
Therefore we'll excuse him, for being so slow.

He likes best to rest, although at times he takes a notion,
Of having a good play, then he prefers motion;
And while thus twirling round and round,
Never the same is he found.