Grandma’s Baby.
Big, blue eyes and fuzzy head,
Lips like cherries, rosy red,
Cunning feet, with wee, pink toes,
Rose-leaf hands, and tiny nose,
Dimpled elbows, shoulders, knees,
Round her wrists a little crease,
One white tooth just peeping through
When she tries to say “Goo-goo!”
What if ev’ry one must walk
All a tip-toe, scarcely talk,
When she takes her morning nap?
That is nothing. Though a lap
Is the only place at night
That will suit her fancy quite.
Though she screams and shrieks with rage,
Did you do less at her age?
What if she must clutch and tear
From its roots her grandma’s hair?
If your watch will keep her quiet,
Why, my dear, of course you’ll try it.
Bang the tongs, she’s fond of music.
Does she cry? You would, were you sick.
Spoiled, you say? You think so, maybe.
But, you see, she’s Grandma’s baby.
