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Poem	"Let's make him a sailor," said Father, "And he will adventure the sea." "A soldier," said Mother, "is rather What I would prefer him to be." "A lawyer," said Father, "would please me, For then he could draw up my will." "A doctor," said Mother, "would ease me; Maybe he could give me a pill." Said Father: "Lt's make him a curate, A Bishop in gaiters to be." Said Mother: "I couldn't endure it To have Willie preaching to me." Said Father: ""Let him be a poet; So often he's gathering wool." Said Mother with temper: "Oh stow it! You know it, a poet's a fool." Said Farther: "Your son is a duffer, A stupid and mischievous elf." Said Mother, who's rather a huffer: "That's right - he takes after yourself." Controlling parental emotion They turned to me, seeking a cue, And sudden conceived the bright notion To ask what I wanted to do. Said I: "my ambition is modest: A clown in a circus I'd be, And turn somersaults in the sawdust With audience laughing at me." . . . Poor parents! they're dead and decaying, But I am a clown as you see; And though in no circus I'm playing, How people are laughing at me!
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