Explore "A Poor Excuse, but our Own" by Franklin P. Adams on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
(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.