That was his sort. It didn't matter What we were at But he must chatter Of this and that His little son Had said and done: Till, as he told The fiftieth time Without a change How three-year-old Prattled a rhyme, They got the range And cut him short. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LOVE DISSEMBLED, FR. AS YOU LIKE IT by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE THE SONG OF THE DIAL by PETER AIREY THE HARVEST by EVA K. ANGLESBURG DESCRIBES THE PLACE WHERE CYNTHIA IS SPORTING HERSELF by PHILIP AYRES |