Will the racket still continue,
Spite of all your mild reproof?
Are you often in a flutter?
Are you sometimes thrilled with joy?
Then I have my grave suspicions
That you have at home–that Boy.
Are your walls and tables hammered?
Are your nerves and ink upset?
Have two eyes, so bright and roguish,
Made you every care forget?
Have your garden beds a prowler,
Who delights but to destroy?
These are well-known indications
That you have at home–that Boy.
Have you seen him playing circus
With his head upon the mat,
And his heels in mid-arm twinkling–
For his audience, the cat?
Do you ever stop to listen,
When his merry planks annoy,–
Listen to a voice that whispers,
You were once just like–that Boy?
Have you heard of broken windows,
And with nobody to blame?
Have you seen a trousered urchin
Quite unconscious of the same?
Do you love a teasing mixture
Of perplexity and joy?
You may have a dozen daughters,
But I know you’ve got–that Boy.