The Black Monkey

My Babbles has a nasty knack Of keeping monkeys on her back. A great big black one comes and swings Right on her sash or pinny strings. It is a horrid thing and wild And makes her such a naughty child.

She comes and stands beside my chair With almost an offended air And says:--“Oh, Father, why can’t I?” And stamps her foot and starts to cry-- I look at Mother in dismay ... What little girl is this, to-day?

She throws about her nicest toys And makes a truly dreadful noise Till Mother rises from her place With quite a Sunday churchy face And Babbles silently is led Into the dark and her own bed.

Never a kiss or one Goodnight, Never a glimpse of candle light. Oh, how the monkey simply flies! Oh, how poor Babbles calls and cries, Runs from the room with might and main, “Father dear, I am good again.”

When she is sitting on my knee Snuggled quite close and kissing me, Babbles and I, we think the same-- Why, that the monkey never came Only a terrible dream maybe ... What did she have for evening tea?