He must not answer back, oh no! However rude grown-ups may be, But keep politely silent, tho' He brim with scathing repartee; For nothing is considered worse Than scoring off Mamma or Nurse.
He must not eat too much at meals, Nor scatter crumbs upon the floor; However vacuous he feels, He may not pass his plate for more; —Not tho' his ev'ry organ ache For further slabs of Christmas cake.
He is enjoined to choose his food From what is easy to digest; A choice which in itself is good, But never what he likes the best. (At times how madly he must wish For just one real unwholesome dish!)
And, when the wretched urchin plays With other little girls and boys, He has to show unselfish ways By giving them his choicest toys; His ears he lets them freely box, Or pull his lubricated locks.
His face is always being washed, His hair perpetually brushed, And thus his brighter side is squashed, His human instincts warped and crushed; Small wonder that his early years Are filled with "thoughts too deep for tears."
He is commanded not to waste The fleeting hours of childhood's days By giving way to any taste For circuses or matinées; For him the entertainments planned Are "Lectures on the Holy Land."
He never reads a story book By Rider H. or Winston C., In vain upon his desk you'd look For tales by Richard Harding D.; Nor could you find upon his shelf The works of Rudyard—or myself!
He always fears that he may do Some action that is infra dig., And so he lives his short life through In the most noxious rôle of Prig. ("Short life" I say, for it's agreed The Good die very young indeed.)
Ah me! How sad it is to think He could have lived like me—or you! With practice and a taste for drink, Our joys he might have known, he too! And shared the pleasure we have had In being gloriously bad!
The Naughty Boy gets much delight From doing what he should not do; But, as such conduct isn't Right, He sometimes suffers for it, too. Yet, what's a spanking to the fun Of leaving vital things Undone?