THE BOY.
By W. H. Pierce.
I wouldn’t be a single thing on earth
Except a boy;
And it’s just an accident of birth
That I’m a boy;
And, goodness gracious! When I stop and think
That I once trembled on the very brink
Of making my appearance here a girl
It fairly makes my ears and eyebrows curl—
But I’m a boy.
Just think of all the jolly fun there is
When you’re a boy!
I tell you, you’re just full of business
When you’re a boy.
There’s fires to build in all the vacant lots.
Go swimmin’, tie the fellers’ clothes in knots,
Tie tin-cans on the tails of dogs—why, gee!
The days ain’t half as long as they should be
When you’re a boy.
There’s lots of foolish things that make you tired
When you’re a boy;
There’s heaps of grouchy men that can’t be hired
To like a boy;
There’s wood to chop at home, and coal to bring,
And “Here, do this—do that—the other thing!”
And, worse than all, there’s girls—oh, holy smoke!
Are they a crime, or are they just a joke
Upon a boy?
And then, there’s always somebody to jaw
When you’re a boy—
Somebody always laying down the law
To every boy;
“Pick up your coat; see where you’ve put your hat;
Don’t stone the dog, don’t tease the poor old cat;
Don’t race around the house”—why, suffrin’ Moses!
The only time you have to practise things like those is
When you’re a boy!
And yet, I don’t believe I’d change a thing
For any boy;
You’ve got to laugh, to cry, to work, to sing,
To be a boy;
With all his thoughtless noise and care less play,
With all his heartfelt trials day by day,
With all his boyish hopes and all his fears,
I’d like to live on earth a thousand years
And be a boy.
Chicago Times-Herald.
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