  Poor Peter was burnt by the poker one day, When he made it look pretty and red; For the beautiful sparks made him think it fine play, To lift it as high as his head. But somehow it happen'd his finger and thumb Were terribly scorched by the heat; And he scream'd out aloud for his mother to come, And stamp'd on the floor with his feet. Now if Peter had minded his mother's command, His fingers would not have been sore; And he promised again, as she bound up his hand, To play with hot pokers no more. |
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