THE GARDEN GATE
Early and late, early and late,
Little Boy swings on the garden gate.
“It isn’t a gate; it’s a motor car!
I’m travelling fast and I’m travelling far.
I toot my horn and I turn my wheel,
And nobody knows how grand I feel!”
Early and late, early and late,
Little Boy swings on the garden gate.
“It isn’t a gate; it’s a great big ship!
I’m off to the Pole on a ’sploring trip.
I’ll ride a white bear, holding on by his hair,
And I’ll hurry him up with a whaleskin whip.”
Early and late, early and late,
Little Boy swings on the garden gate.
“It isn’t a gate; it’s a big balloon!
I’m going to sail till I reach the moon.
I’ll play with the Man as hard as I can,
And I’ll stir up the stars with a great horn spoon.”
Early and late, early and late,
Little Boy swings on the garden gate.
“It isn’t a gate; it’s—” off runs he,
His mother is calling, “Come in to tea!”
It’s a wonderful gate, but it just isn’t able
To turn itself into a supper-table.