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Poem	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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