Tim
My brother Tim has children ten,
While I have none.
Maybe that’s why he’s toiling when
To ease I’ve won.
But though I would some of his brood
Give hearth and care,
I know that not a one he would
Have heart to spare.
'Tis children that have kept him poor;
He’s clad them neat.
They’ve never wanted, I am sure,
For bite to eat.
And though their future may be dim,
They laugh a lot.
Am I tearful for Brother Tim?
Oh no, I’m not.
I know he goes to work each day
With flagging feet.
'Tis hard, even with decent pay,
To make ends meet.
But when my sterile home I see,
So smugly prim,
Although my banker bows to me,
I envy Tim.
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