Himself a soft, pink little lad
Just like he used to be.

I would not give this story fame
If there were room to doubt it,
But when he learned to talk, he came
And told me all about it.




The Old Bad Woman



The Old Bad Woman was coming along,
Busily humming a sort of song.

You could barely see, below her bonnet,
Her chin where her long nose rested on it.

One tooth thrust out on her lower lip,
And she held one hand upon her hip.

Then we went to thinking mighty fast,
For we knew our time had come at last.

For what we had done and didn't do
The Old Bad Woman would put us through.