  Illustrated I I ’M told I’m very naughty I almost ’spect I am; But, somehow, when I shut the door It’s nearly sure to slam. Can you tell why my shoe-strings break And tie themselves in knots, And how it is my copy-books Are always full of blots? It seems as if too many blots Lived in one pot of ink; But when they’re wet and shiny, They’re pretty, don’t you think? Why does my hair get tangled? What makes me talk all day? And why don’t toys and books just try To put themselves away? I think that p’r’aps I might be good A little, by-and-by; It’s very hard, but sometimes I almost ’spect I’ll try. But now they say I’m naughty, And p’r’aps it’s nearly true; There are so many naughty things For little folks to do. |
|
