LITTLE WILLIE - Barron Field Poems


Poems » barron field » little willie


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.