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BomberJacknut
It's almost like torture
A feeling that I can't escape
And it's only getting harder
Have I really made a mistake?
Staring through the window
Drooling at the pretty toy I see
But I just don't have the money
I have to have it, it has to be for me!
And yet I see someone else
Through the glass with a gleam in their eyes
I refuse to let them have it
They can't take what is mine!
And as I pound on the glass
Oblivious to my demands
They take the toy away from me
How dare they mock me so!
HE SAID:
"In the winter dusk
When the pavements were gleaming with rain,
I walked thru a dingy street
Hurried, harassed,
Thinking of all my problems that never are
solved.
Suddenly out of the mist, a flaring gas-jet
Shone from a huddled shop.
I saw thru the bleary window
A mass of playthings:
False-faces hung on strings,
Valentines, paper and tinsel,
Tops of scarlet and green,
Candy, marbles, jacks--
A confusion of color
Down at the hall at midnight sometimes,
You hear them singing rhymes.
These girls are dancing with boys.
They are too big for toys.
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
By the old toy cabinet,
I stand and turn over dusty things:
Chessmen--card games--hoops and balls--
Toy rifles, helmets, swords,
In the far corner
A doll's tea-set in a box.
Where are you, golden child,
Who gave tea to your dolls and me?
The golden child is growing old,
Further than Rome or Babylon
From you have passed those foolish years.
She lives--she suffers--she forgets.
By the old toy cabinet,
I idly stand and awkwardly
Finger the lock of the tea-set box.
What matter--why should I look inside,