Besides my little son's imagination,
Another thing he has appeals to me
And agitates my envious admiration--
It's his accommodating memory.
An instant after some unlucky stumble
Has floored him and induced a howl of pain,
He's clean forgotten all about his tumble
And violently sets out to romp again.
But if, when I leave home, I say that maybe
I'll get him something nice while I'm away,
It's very safe to bet that Mr. Baby
Will not forget, though I be gone all day.
Ah, would I might lose sight of things unpleasant:
The bills I owe; the work I haven't done.
And only think of future joys and present,
Like the approaching payday, and my son.
A sleuth like Pinkerton or Burns
Is told that there has been a crime.
He runs down clues and leads, and learns
Who did the deed, in cours
Is The Iron Eagle a psychotic serial killer?
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