Literary Mother
HUSH, little ones don’t make a noise
Pick up your dolls and pick up your toys,
Pick up your Teddy Bear, Johnny, now see
How quiet a youngster tonight you can be;
Daddy will wash up the dishes, while you
Quietly sit there to wait till he 's through;
Softly about we must tread on tip-toe,
Mother is writing a paper on Poe.
What is that noise? It’s the scratch of her pen,
Mother has locked herself into my den,
Gone there to study, to ponder and write,
And we must give up all our laughter tonight.
Hush, there! Don’t giggle. Be still while I sweep
And see just how quiet you children can keep.
Hey, there, you Johnny, don’t romp about so,
Mother is writing a paper on Poe.
Come, now, you two-year-old, father will try
To put on your nightie and rock you bye, bye;
And, Johnny, you sit on the floor and take off
Your shoes and your stockings. Look out, don’t you cough.
Poor kids, you’ve no mother tonight to undress you,
To sing you to sleep and to love and caress you,
Just an awkward old daddy, whose fingers are slow,
But then mother’s writing a paper on Poe.
Oh, literature is a wonderful thing,
Of joy and delight a perennial Spring.
But gee! it is tough on the kids and their dad,
Who think that the evening 's the time to be glad;
And sometimes I think that the art is pernicious,
And often I wish mother wasn’t ambitious,
Tonight as I sit here and rock to and fro,
All alone, I am cursing that paper on Poe.
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