(Why don't you ever write any child poetry? <br /> -A MOTHER.) <br /> <br />My right-hand neighbour hath a child, <br /> A pretty child of five or six, <br />Not more than other children wild, <br /> Nor fuller than the rest of tricks- <br />At five he rises, shine or rain, <br />And noisily plays 'fire' or 'train.' <br /> <br />Likewise a girl, _aetatis_ eight, <br /> He hath. Each morning, as a rule, <br />Proudly my neighbour will relate <br /> How bright Mathilda is at school. <br />My ardour, less than half of mild, <br />Bids me to comment, 'Wondrous child!' <br /> <br />All through the vernal afternoon <br /> My other neighbour's children skate <br />A wild Bacchantic rigadoon <br /> On rollers; nor does it abate <br />Till dark; and then his babies cry <br />What time I fain would versify. <br /> <br />Did I but set myself to sing <br /> A children's song, I'd stand revealed <br />A bard that did the infant thing <br /> As well as Riley or 'Gene Field. <br />I could write famous Children Stuff, <br />If they'd keep quiet long enough.<br /><br />Franklin P. Adams<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-poor-excuse-but-our-own/
