You can talk about your music, and your operatic airs, <br />And your phonographic record that Caruso's tenor bears; <br />But there isn't any music that such wondrous joy can bring <br />Like the concert when the kiddies and their mother start to sing. <br /> <br />When the supper time is over, then the mother starts to play <br />Some simple little ditty, and our concert's under way. <br />And I'm happier and richer than a millionaire or king <br />When I listen to the kiddies and their mother as they sing. <br /> <br />There's a sweetness most appealing in the trilling of their notes: <br />It is innocence that's pouring from their little baby throats; <br />And I gaze at them enraptured, for my joy's a real thing <br />Every evening when the kiddies and their mother start to sing.<br /><br />Edgar Albert Guest<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/real-singing/
