THE BAD BOY
The moon, a gossiping old dame,

Told Father Sun the bad boy’s shame.

And then the giant sun began
A very satisfactory plan.

Upon the naughty rebel’s face
He would not pour his beamy grace.

He would not stroke the dark-brown strands
With entertaining shiny hands.

The little garden of the boy
Seemed desert, missing heaven’s joy.

But all his sister’s tulips grew
Magnificent with shine and dew.

Where’er he went he found a shade,
But light was poured upon the maid.

He also lost, by his disgrace,
That indoors sun, his mother’s face.

His father sent him up to bed
With neither kiss nor pat for head.