By Bertha A. Kleinman
In the midst of the jolliest game that I play,
When the sun hasn’t winked and it’s brighter than day,
They tell me to pick up my books and my toys,
For they say it is bedtime for good little boys.
Would you guess in the heart of a wee little lad,
How he wonders a way to be wicked and bad?
How he wishes that someone would teach him the way
How to never be good when they call him from play.
Oh, there’s nobody knows of the black in my soul,
When they pet me and say, “What a treasure to hold!”
Oh, there’s nobody knows and there’s nobody cares
When they spoil all my playtime and take me upstairs.
Tho’ I beg and protest with the tears in my eyes,
They rock me and sing me to hush up my cries;
And they cuddle and pat me and think they are kind
When they say, “What a dear little mankin to mind!”
Oh, there’s nobody knows what a rebel I am
When they kiss me and call me a dear little lamb;
For I wish that a pirate would steal me away
To a land where the hours are longer for play.