I THINK that I should like to be
A pavement artist best,
For he has every kind of chalk
Spread in a cosy nest.
I have ten pieces in a box,
Black, yellow, white and blue,
Pink, red, brown, orange, grey and green,
But these are far too few.
He has a hundred different shades,
And most uncommon sorts;
He can draw salmon, queens and chops,
Wrecks, mutinies and forts.
His cannon have enormous puffs
Of the most curly smoke,
Because he has so many 'greys,'
Far more than other folk.
His girls are a delicious pink,
And mine are rather pale;
But then I have to be more strict
For fear my pink should fail.
His fields have got a splendid green;
They're full of flowers bright;
But mine are covered up with snow
Because my paper's white.
And yet with all these jolly chalks,
The artist seems in pain;
Perhaps because his pictures get
Rubbed out by showers of rain.