His Memory

Besides my little son’s imagination, Another thing he has appeals to me And agitates my envious admiration⁠— It’s his accommodating memory.

An instant after some unlucky stumble Has floored him and induced a howl of pain, He’s clean forgotten all about his tumble And violently sets out to romp again.

But if, when I leave home, I say that maybe I’ll get him something nice while I’m away, It’s very safe to bet that Mr. Baby Will not forget, though I be gone all day.

Ah, would I might lose sight of things unpleasant: The bills I owe; the work I haven’t done. And only think of future joys and present, Like the approaching payday, and my son.