O'er the evening paper there, 
  With the fire, and easy chair . . . 
 And soft shoes 

Wondered, Oh! What joy . . . What fun, 
  To be father of a son . . . 
 Yes, a boon 

When I heard a tapping, hard, 
  Was it coming from the yard? . . . 
No! His room 

He's up playing in his lair, 
  Thought I, as I climbed the stair . . . 
 To his door 

Playing in his lair was right, 
  Pounding nails with my best pipe . . . 
 In the floor 

He showed no remorse or shame, 
  Said it was a little game . . . 
That he played 

Then his mother sauntered in, 
  With a worried look . . . chagrined . . . 
 And she stayed 

Now my son had grown much bolder. 
  With my wife's hand on his shoulder . . . 
 Teary eyed 

She said: "Dear, we must be fair!" 
  So I bent him o'er a chair . . . 
 Tanned his hide!