The Black Monkey

 My Babbles has a nasty knack
Of keeping monkeys on her back.

A great big black one comes and swings
Right on her sash or pinny strings.

It is a horrid thing and wild
And makes her such a naughty child.


She comes and stands beside my chair
With almost an offended air
And says:--"Oh, Father, why can't I?"
And stamps her foot and starts to cry--
I look at Mother in dismay.
.
.

What little girl is this, to-day?

She throws about her nicest toys
And makes a truly dreadful noise
Till Mother rises from her place
With quite a Sunday churchy face
And Babbles silently is led
Into the dark and her own bed.


Never a kiss or one Goodnight,
Never a glimpse of candle light.

Oh, how the monkey simply flies!
Oh, how poor Babbles calls and cries,
Runs from the room with might and main,
"Father dear, I am good again.
"

When she is sitting on my knee
Snuggled quite close and kissing me,
Babbles and I, we think the same--
Why, that the monkey never came
Only a terrible dream maybe.
.
.

What did she have for evening tea?

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