Last year he wanted building blocks, <br /> And picture books and toys, <br />A saddle horse that gayly rocks, <br /> And games for little boys. <br />But now he's big and all that stuff <br /> His whim no longer suits; <br />He tells us that he's old enough <br /> To ask for rubber boots. <br /> <br />Last year whatever Santa brought <br /> Delighted him to own; <br />He never gave his wants a thought <br /> Nor made his wishes known. <br />But now he says he wants a gun, <br /> The kind that really shoots, <br />And I'm confronted with a son <br /> Demanding rubber boots. <br /> <br />The baby that we used to know <br /> Has somehow slipped away, <br />And when or where he chanced to go <br /> Not one of us can say. <br />But here's a helter-skelter lad <br /> That to me nightly scoots <br />And boldly wishes that he had <br /> A pair of rubber boots. <br /> <br />I'll bet old Santa Claus will sigh <br /> When down our flue he comes, <br />And seeks the babe that used to lie <br /> And suck his tiny thumbs, <br />And finds within that little bed <br /> A grown up boy who hoots <br />At building blocks, and wants instead <br /> A pair of rubber boots.<br /><br />Edgar Albert Guest<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/grown-up-14/
