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Father’s Chore
My Pa can hit his thumbnail with a hammer and
keep still;
He can cut himself while shaving an’ not
swear ;
If a ladder slips beneath him an’ he gets a nasty
spill
He can smile as though he really didn’t care.
But the pan beneath the ice-box when he goes
to empty that
Then a sound-proof room the children have
to hunt ;
For we have a sad few minutes in our very
pleasant flat
When the water in it splashes down his front.
My Pa believes his temper should be all the time
controlled ;
He doesn’t rave .at every little thing;
When his collar-button underneath the chiffonier
has rolled
A snatch of merry ragtime he will sing.
But the pan beneath the ice box when to empty
that he goes
As he stoops to drag it out we hear a grunt ;
From the kitchen comes a rumble, an’ then every
body knows
That he splashed the water in it down his front.
Now the distance from the ice box to the sink’s
not very far
I’m sure it isn’t over twenty feet
But though very short the journey, it is long
enough for Pa
As he travels it disaster grim to meet.
And it’s seldom that he makes it without accident,
although
In the summer time it is his nightly stunt ;
And he says a lot of language that no gentleman
should know
When the water in it splashes down his front.
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