  My Babbles has a nasty knack Of keeping monkeys on her back. A great big black one comes and swings Right on her sash or pinny strings. It is a horrid thing and wild And makes her such a naughty child. She comes and stands beside my chair With almost an offended air And says:—“Oh, Father, why can’t I?” And stamps her foot and starts to cry— I look at Mother in dismay ... What little girl is this, to-day? She throws about her nicest toys And makes a truly dreadful noise Till Mother rises from her place With quite a Sunday churchy face And Babbles silently is led Into the dark and her own bed. Never a kiss or one Goodnight, Never a glimpse of candle light. Oh, how the monkey simply flies! Oh, how poor Babbles calls and cries, Runs from the room with might and main, “Father dear, I am good again.” When she is sitting on my knee Snuggled quite close and kissing me, Babbles and I, we think the same— Why, that the monkey never came Only a terrible dream maybe ... What did she have for evening tea? |
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