'Twas a blustery winter's night,
And I wondered with delight . . .
As I mused
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 . . .
She said: "Dear, we must be fair!"
So I bent him o'er a chair . . .
Tanned his hide!