THE BLACK MONKEY
MyBabbles has a nasty knackOf keeping monkeys on her back.A great big black one comes and swingsRight on her sash or pinny strings.It is a horrid thing and wildAnd makes her such a naughty child.She comes and stands beside my chairWith almost an offended airAnd says:—“Oh, Father, why can’t I?”And stamps her foot and starts to cry—I look at Mother in dismay ...What little girl is this, to-day?She throws about her nicest toysAnd makes a truly dreadful noiseTill Mother rises from her placeWith quite a Sunday churchy faceAnd Babbles silently is ledInto the dark and her own bed.Never a kiss or one Goodnight,Never a glimpse of candle light.Oh, how the monkey simply flies!Oh, how poor Babbles calls and cries,Runs from the room with might and main,“Father dear, I am good again.”When she is sitting on my kneeSnuggled quite close and kissing me,Babbles and I, we think the same—Why, that the monkeynevercameOnly a terrible dream maybe ...What did she have for evening tea?
MyBabbles has a nasty knackOf keeping monkeys on her back.A great big black one comes and swingsRight on her sash or pinny strings.It is a horrid thing and wildAnd makes her such a naughty child.She comes and stands beside my chairWith almost an offended airAnd says:—“Oh, Father, why can’t I?”And stamps her foot and starts to cry—I look at Mother in dismay ...What little girl is this, to-day?She throws about her nicest toysAnd makes a truly dreadful noiseTill Mother rises from her placeWith quite a Sunday churchy faceAnd Babbles silently is ledInto the dark and her own bed.Never a kiss or one Goodnight,Never a glimpse of candle light.Oh, how the monkey simply flies!Oh, how poor Babbles calls and cries,Runs from the room with might and main,“Father dear, I am good again.”When she is sitting on my kneeSnuggled quite close and kissing me,Babbles and I, we think the same—Why, that the monkeynevercameOnly a terrible dream maybe ...What did she have for evening tea?
MyBabbles has a nasty knackOf keeping monkeys on her back.A great big black one comes and swingsRight on her sash or pinny strings.It is a horrid thing and wildAnd makes her such a naughty child.
She comes and stands beside my chairWith almost an offended airAnd says:—“Oh, Father, why can’t I?”And stamps her foot and starts to cry—I look at Mother in dismay ...What little girl is this, to-day?
She throws about her nicest toysAnd makes a truly dreadful noiseTill Mother rises from her placeWith quite a Sunday churchy faceAnd Babbles silently is ledInto the dark and her own bed.
Never a kiss or one Goodnight,Never a glimpse of candle light.Oh, how the monkey simply flies!Oh, how poor Babbles calls and cries,Runs from the room with might and main,“Father dear, I am good again.”
When she is sitting on my kneeSnuggled quite close and kissing me,Babbles and I, we think the same—Why, that the monkeynevercameOnly a terrible dream maybe ...What did she have for evening tea?