When Willie was a little boy, <br /> No more than five or six, <br /> Right constantly he did annoy <br /> His mother with his tricks. <br /> Yet not a picayune cared I <br /> For what he did or said, <br /> Unless, as happened frequently, <br /> The rascal wet the bed. <br /> Closely he cuddled up to me, <br /> And put his hands in mine, <br /> Till all at once I seemed to be <br /> Afloat in seas of brine. <br /> Sabean odors clogged the air, <br /> And filled my soul with dread, <br /> Yet I could only grin and bear <br /> When Willie wet the bed. <br /> <br /> 'Tis many times that rascal has <br /> Soaked all the bedclothes through, <br /> Whereat I'd feebly light the gas <br /> And wonder what to do. <br /> Yet there he lay, so peaceful like; <br /> God bless his curly head, <br /> I quite forgave the little tyke <br /> For wetting of the bed. <br /> <br /> Ah me, those happy days have flown. <br /> My boy's a father, too, <br /> And little Willies of his own <br /> Do what he used to do. <br /> And I! Ah, all that's left for me <br /> Is dreams of pleasure fled! <br /> Our boys ain't what they used to be <br /> When Willie wet the bed. <br /> <br /> Had I my choice, no shapely dame <br /> Should share my couch with me, <br /> No amorous jade of tarnished fame, <br /> Nor wench of high degree; <br /> But I would choose and choose again <br /> The little curly head, <br /> Who cuddled close beside me when <br /> He used to wet the bed.<br /><br />Eugene Field<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/little-willie/
