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...OBERON'S FEAST by ROBERT HERRICK ROBIN HOOD, TO A FRIEND by JOHN KEATS DRAPIER'S HILL by JONATHAN SWIFT TO A FOIL'D EUROPEAN REVOLUTIONAIRE by WALT WHITMAN CITY LYRICS by NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS A CHARACTER OF JOHN MORT by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD BLEAKE'S HOUSE IN BLACKMWORE by WILLIAM BARNES |