Author's Preface
Reading edition
WITH guilty, conscience-stricken tears I offer up these rhymes of mine To children of maturer years (From Seventeen to Ninety-nine). A special solace may they be In days of second infancy. The frenzied mother who observes This volume in her offspring's hand, And trembles for the darling's nerves, Must please to clearly understand, If baby suffers by-and-bye The Artist is to blame, not I! But should the little brat survive, And fatten on the Ruthless Rhyme, To raise a Heartless Home and thrive Through a successful life of crime, The Artist hopes that you will see That I am to be thanked, not he!
P. T. O.[1]
Fond parent, you whose children are Of tender age (from two to eight), Pray keep this little volume far From reach of such, and relegate My verses to an upper shelf,— Where you may study them yourself.
FOOTNOTE:
"He had such good cigars."
