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Poem	My Daddy used to wallop me for every small offense: "Its takes a hair-brush back," said he, "to teach kids common-sense." And still to-day I scarce can look a hair-brush in the face. Without I want in sympathy to pat a tender place. For Dad declared with unction: "Spare the brush and spoil the brat." The dear old man! What e'er his faults he never did do that; And though a score of years have gone since he departed hence, I still revere his deity, The God of Common-sense. How often I have played the ass (Man's universal fate), Yet always I have saved myself before it was too late; How often tangled with a dame - you know how these things are, Yet always had the gumption not to carry on too far; Remembering that fancy skirts, however high they go, Are not to be stacked up against a bunch of hard-earned dough; And sentiment has little weight compared with pounds and pence, According to the gospel of the God of Common-sense. Oh blessing on that old hair-brush my Daddy used to whack With such benign precision on the basement of my back. Oh blessings on his wisdom, saying: "Son, don't play the fool, Let prudence be your counselor and reason be your rule. Don't get romantic notions, always act with judgment calm, Poetical emotions ain't in practice worth a damn/ let solid comfort be your goal, self-interest your guide. . . ." Then just as if to emphasize, whack! whack! the brush he plied. And so I often wonder if my luck is Providence, or just my humble tribute to the God of Common-sense.
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