(Why don't you ever write any child poetry?
-A MOTHER.)
My right-hand neighbour hath a child,
A pretty child of five or six,
Not more than other children wild,
Nor fuller than the rest of tricks-
At five he rises, shine or rain,
And noisily plays 'fire' or 'train.'
Likewise a girl, _aetatis_ eight,
He hath. Each morning, as a rule,
Proudly my neighbour will relate
How bright Mathilda is at school.
My ardour, less than half of mild,
Bids me to comment, 'Wondrous child!'
All through the vernal afternoon
My other neighbour's children skate
A wild Bacchantic rigadoon
On rollers; nor does it abate
Till dark; and then his babies cry
What time I fain would versify.
Did I but set myself to sing
A children's song, I'd stand revealed
A bard that did the infant thing
As well as Riley or 'Gene Field.
I could write famous Children Stuff,
If they'd keep quiet long enough.
A Poor Excuse, But Our Own
Franklin Pierce Adams
(1)
Poem topics: dark, fire, girl, mother, poetry, rain, school, song, time, field, long, bright, morning, pretty, stand, shine, quiet, train, I love you, I miss you, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
Submit Spanish Translation
Submit German Translation
Submit French Translation
<< An Ode In Time Of Inauguration Poem
To W. Hohenzollern, On Discontinuing The Conning Tower Poem>>
Write your comment about A Poor Excuse, But Our Own poem by Franklin Pierce Adams
Best Poems of Franklin Pierce Adams