My Pa can hit his thumbnail with a hammer and keep still; <br /> He can cut himself while shaving an' not swear; <br />If a ladder slips beneath him an' he gets a nasty spill <br /> He can smile as though he really didn't care. <br />But the pan beneath the ice-box- when he goes to empty that- <br /> Then a sound-proof room the children have to hunt; <br />For we have a sad few minutes in our very pleasant flat <br /> When the water in it splashes down his front. <br /> <br />My Pa believes his temper should be all the time controlled; <br /> He doesn't rave at every little thing; <br />When his collar-button underneath the chiffonier has rolled <br /> A snatch of merry ragtime he will sing. <br />But the pan beneath the ice box- when to empty that he goes- <br /> As he stoops to drag it out we hear a grunt; <br />From the kitchen comes a rumble, an' then everybody knows <br /> That he splashed the water in it down his front. <br /> <br />Now the distance from the ice box to the sink's not very far- <br /> I'm sure it isn't over twenty feet- <br />But though very short the journey, it is long enough for Pa <br /> As he travels it disaster grim to meet. <br />And it's seldom that he makes it without accident, although <br /> In the summer time it is his nightly stunt; <br />And he says a lot of language that no gentleman should know <br /> When the water in it splashes down his front.<br /><br />Edgar Albert Guest<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/father-s-chore/
