Each evening on my lap there climbs <br />A little boy of three, <br />And with his dimpled, chubby fists <br />He pounds me shamefully. <br />He gives my beard a vicious tug, <br />He bravely pulls my nose; <br />And then he tussles with my hair <br />And then explores my clothes. <br />He throws my pencils on the floor <br />My watch is his delight; <br />He never seems to think that I <br />Have any private right. <br />And though he breaks my good cigars, <br />With all his cunning art, <br />He works a greater ruin, far, <br />Deep down within my heart. <br />This roguish little tyke who sits <br />Each night upon my knee, <br />And hammers at his poor old dad, <br />Is bound to conquer me. <br />He little knows that long ago, <br />He forced the gates apart, <br />And marched triumphantly into <br />The city of my heart. <br />Some day perhaps, in years to come, <br />When he is older grown, <br />He, too, will be assailed as I, <br />By youngsters of his own. <br />And when at last a little lad <br />Gives battle on his knee, <br />I know that he'll be captured, too, <br />Just as he captured me.<br /><br />Edgar Albert Guest<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-boy-soldier/
