Grown Up
Last year he wanted building blocks,
And picture books and toys,
A saddle horse that gayly rocks,
And games for little boys.
But now he’s big and all that stuff
His whim no longer suits;
He tells us that he’s old enough
To ask for rubber boots.
Last year whatever Santa brought
Delighted him to own;
He never gave his wants a thought
Nor made his wishes known.
But now he says he wants a gun,
The kind that really shoots,
And I’m confronted with a son
Demanding rubber boots.
The baby that we used to know
Has somehow slipped away,
And when or where he chanced to go
Not one of us can say.
But here’s a helter-skelter lad
That to me nightly scoots
And boldly wishes that he had
A pair of rubber boots.
I’ll bet old Santa Claus will sigh
When down our flue he comes,
And seeks the babe that used to lie
And suck his tiny thumbs,
And finds within that little bed
A grown up boy who hoots
At building blocks, and wants instead
A pair of rubber boots.
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