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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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