Tim

 My brother Tim has children ten,
 While I have none.
Maybe that's why he's toiling when
 To ease I've won.
But though I would some of his brood
 Give hearth and care,
I know that not a one he would
 Have heart to spare.

'Tis children that have kept him poor;
 He's clad them neat.
They've never wanted, I am sure,
 For bite to eat.
And though their future may be dim,
 They laugh a lot.
Am I tearful for Brother Tim?
 Oh no, I'm not.

I know he goes to work each day
 With flagging feet.
'Tis hard, even with decent pay,
 To make ends meet.
But when my sterile home I see,
 So smugly prim,
Although my banker bows to me,
 I envy Tim.

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