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Poem	When Willie was a little boy, No more than five or six, Right constantly he did annoy His mother with his tricks. Yet not a picayune cared I For what he did or said, Unless, as happened frequently, The rascal wet the bed. Closely he cuddled up to me, And put his hands in mine, Till all at once I seemed to be Afloat in seas of brine. Sabean odors clogged the air, And filled my soul with dread, Yet I could only grin and bear When Willie wet the bed. 'Tis many times that rascal has Soaked all the bedclothes through, Whereat I'd feebly light the gas And wonder what to do. Yet there he lay, so peaceful like; God bless his curly head, I quite forgave the little tyke For wetting of the bed. Ah me, those happy days have flown. My boy's a father, too, And little Willies of his own Do what he used to do. And I! Ah, all that's left for me Is dreams of pleasure fled! Our boys ain't what they used to be When Willie wet the bed. Had I my choice, no shapely dame Should share my couch with me, No amorous jade of tarnished fame, Nor wench of high degree; But I would choose and choose again The little curly head, Who cuddled close beside me when He used to wet the bed.
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