Tom

 That Tom was poor was sure a pity,
 Such guts for learning had the lad;
He took to Greek like babe to titty,
 And he was mathematic mad.

I loved to prime him up with knowledge,
 A brighter lad I never knew;
I dreamed that he would go to college
 And there be honoured too.


But no! His Dad said, "Son, I need you
 To keep the kettle on the boil;
No longer can I clothe and feed you,
 Buy study books and midnight oil.

I carry on as best I'm able,
 A humble tailor, as you know;
And you must squat cross-legged a table
 And learn to snip and sew.
"

And that is what poor Tom is doing.

 He bravely makes the best of it;
But as he "fits" you he is knowing 
 That he himself is a misfit;
And thinks as he fulfils his calling,
 With patient heart yet deep distaste,
Like clippings from his shears down-falling,
 --He, too, is Waste.

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